It's Not The Years, It's The Mileage
by Plurimisverbis
Summary: T&Z - A Different View Of Tony's Meltdown.  Rated M for Sex & Language
1. The Wrong Face

**A/N:****I don't own anything I'm not supposed to. The characters, lyrics, references, titles + anything else all belong to whomever. Please don't sue me - it is just for fun. The rest came out of my brain. **

**I've been toying with Tony's meltdown for a while – didn't like the Brenda storyline - so this is my version. I intended to write something light & fluffy only this is the story which emerged. Make of it what you will… Hope you enjoy.**

**Never been sure of the exact age difference between T&Z. And I always leave the specifics of what happened to Ziva deliberately ambiguous – fill in whatever you like.**

**The cases are not relevant – just a backdrop and not something I write well. No idea how those communication thingies work – I made them do what I wanted; its fanfic!**

**The song titles are in parenthesis, when it isn't the chapter heading. The story title is a movie quote.**

**Please do post a review if you have the time – I really appreciate them. Tell me what didn't work, what did or even just liked/disliked the tale.**

* * *

_**It's the wrong time and the wrong place**_

_**Though your face is charming, it's the wrong face**_

_**Cole Porter [It's Alright With Me]**_

* * *

"What does 'Zee-vah' mean?"

Alice was standing at his kitchen table, checking her Blackberry. She placed her car keys on top of the brief-case. Tony paused in adjusting his cuff-links. This was an unexpected and distinctly awkward start to the day – she had even mimicked his pronunciation. Alice was a tall, stunning blonde. They had been seeing each other for a couple of weeks. She was a civil lawyer, in her mid thirties; clever, elegant and even -tempered. Everything he could wish for in a girlfriend. Apart from being a little too bright and breezy in the mornings and maybe they could work on that. Alice was perfect for him.

Perfect, that is, if he overlooked her one catastrophic flaw; she wasn't an utterly gorgeous, borderline crazy, Israeli chick – with an equal aptitude for lethal logic or tumultuous irrationality – ten years his junior.

"Brilliance or brightness, I think."

Tony played outrageously dumb in not asking for elaboration of her peculiar inquiry. Whilst he tried to subdue the uncomfortable sense he'd just been caught doing something he shouldn't.

"Ah. Then _what_ is 'Zee-vah'?"

Alice was puzzled. So far, she had found Tony affable, charming and attentive.

"Um….'s more a case of a 'who', really. Do you wanna ride in this morning?"

Despite the fact he knew the keys indicated she didn't. Alice walked over and smoothed an imaginary wrinkle in his shirt, leaning close to him.

"No thanks, I'm in court later." She was framing her cross-examination, in the same way she did professionally. "Zee-vah: that's a very unusual name."

Tony waited for what was obviously coming next.

"Who _is_ Zee-vah?"

The query was accompanied by a collected smile to convey the innocence of her curiosity.

"Someone I work with."

Casual and unconcerned - years of fencing with the owner of the unusual name had developed his verbal athleticism into an art form. And dealing with a highly trained covert operative, on a daily basis, meant Alice's lawyerly ploy was, almost irritatingly, easy to detect.

"Who are you skewering today?" Perhaps if he showed interest in her job, she'd leave his alone.

He never told women, in the embryonic stages of a relationship, what being an NCIS agent entailed – none of them had ever heard of NCIS anyway. Tony just encouraged them to think he was an ex-cop who worked for an obscure government organization, connected to the Navy. This meant that he hadn't told any woman exactly what he did for a living for a depressingly long time.

"No-one," Alice brushed her lips against his, "pre-trial stuff for the Greville estate and property proceedings. It's all very dull."

Tony was only half invested in the kiss, expecting Alice would continue in her line of questioning. Although he held out the forlorn hope, the Fates would give him a break. Life had become mysteriously difficult to navigate recently.

"Is Zee-vah a male someone or a female someone, honey?" She was still trying to imply the harmless nature of her interest; persistence gave her away.

He abandoned evasion. Perhaps Gibbs was right about lawyers - even very attractive ones. At 5:33 a.m., Tony was ill-equipped to be performing damage control. He was barely one third of the way into his first coffee.

"Uh, a female someone." Making a conscious decision not to smile as Ziva swarmed into his mind. "She's a….she."

The description struck him as woefully inadequate. Especially since this morning Ziva would be at the Range. Also nauseatingly alert at the crack of dawn, she was maintaining and sharpening that innate, reliable accuracy of hers. She would arrive at work with flashing eyes and in an exhilarated mood. Tony realized, long ago, he shouldn't enjoy the response shooting things evoked in her quite as much as he did. Except Ziva's expertise with a firearm was an important factor in keeping her alive. It was a buffer against some of her more reckless tendencies. Not to mention it was simply part of what made her so irresistibly, temptingly Ziva. The train of thought only served to remind him that Alice wasn't Ziva. By this stage, in such a type of cat-and-mouse contest, his Ninja would be fizzing like a little Catherine Wheel or threatening pain – or both. It was what made Alice suddenly seem so insipid; lovely and agreeable but insipid.

Tony frowned. He had promised himself he wouldn't do the comparison deal anymore. He switched his attention back to Alice, putting his arms around her. She pulled away from him, picking up his badge from the table and running her fingers over it. Tony wondered if she had guessed his thoughts were not of her. He knew she was assimilating the fact Ziva was a woman.

"She's an agent too?"

"Yeah, Zee-vah's an agent." Burying the affection saying her name usually engendered. He sighed. "Why does she matter, Alice?"

He had to ask. Despite being fairly sure the reason wouldn't be a good one. If he wanted this to stand a chance, and on some level he did; he had to make an effort.

"Because you said her name in your sleep last night." Her voice had become tighter. "You've said her name in your sleep every night I've been with you."

Tony was tempted to point out they'd slept together no more than six nights – total – _every_ made it sound a lot worse. However, it seemed as if he was testifying on the stand and Alice viewed him as a hostile witness. He tried to mollify her.

"Everyone has those dreams, don't they? You know; weird work ones or the standing-in-front-of-your-entire-college-class-naked type?"

The disarming manner and easy answer hadn't worked. She collected her case and keys with a frosty little smile.

"Oh, I have no doubt you were naked, Tony. And so was _Zee-vah._" Although unable to mask the resentment at Ziva's name, Alice was calm and composed in her reproach - which made him feel horribly guilty. "I'm also certain the two of you were alone, together, in your dream."

Tony flinched when the front door banged, slightly, as she left. Annoyed his first thought had been; if that were Ziva, windows would have shattered with the force of the slam. If that were Ziva, he would have gone after her, figuring out a way to fix whatever was awry between them.

The talking in his sleep was, as far as he could ascertain anyway, a new development. Although it was merely another symptom of an on-going affliction; he did dream of Ziva. Not every night and the dreams were not always sexual in nature. Sometimes they were jumbled searches or muddled conversations - kaleidoscopic images which left him feeling bereft and discontented. More problematic, for months now, he had found himself closing his eyes and thinking of Ziva during sex.

Could it be considered – technically - as being unfaithful to someone with whom he was not quite in a relationship, if he was thinking of someone else whilst screwing them? Even if that ensured they had a really good time? After all, he wasn't, actually, fucking that particular someone else in the real world – however much he wanted to. Besides, as the only woman in his life, it was only natural he thought about her – a lot. Once he was _definitely_ in a relationship, he would stop thinking about Ziva altogether.

Tony pushed the dilemma to the back of his mind. It was way too early to be wrestling questions of ethics. Let alone the fickle concept of mental infidelity.

In any case, dwelling on the problem never provided a solution. He was a Navy cop and she was his partner. Throw in a whole boatload of other grief and it left the incontrovertible truth; a subconscious relationship was as close as he was ever going to get with her. That conclusion hurt; more than he was willing to acknowledge.


	2. That Voodoo You Do So Well

_**You do something to me, something that simply mystifies me**_

_**Tell me, why should it be? You have the power to hypnotize me**_

_**Cole Porter [You Do Something To Me]**_

* * *

Tony had been tetchy all day and it was now late afternoon. McGee was puzzled since Tony had a new girlfriend – one who had survived past the two weekend mark. McGee couldn't remember the last time that had happened. The team was working a joint operation with the FBI. Officially, it was the Feds' party – weapons trafficking. A civil contractor had taken advantage of contacts and opportunities. Fornell requested Gibbs' help and NCIS involvement because some of the names on the pay-roll were dishonorably discharged Navy and Marine personnel. In addition there was the suspicion of an inside accessory.

"Last time we were tracking arms dealers, my father went to an exclusive, Black Tie, affair." Tony was complaining about the details. "I get the third-rate strip joint where I'll have to shower in bleach afterwards 'cause who the fuck knows what's in the place."

McGee had been listening to the rant for the past half hour.

"Must be a case of horses for courses, Tony," he smirked – enjoying the rare chance of a put-down. "Anyway, how do you know it's third-rate?" The naïve question did slightly mar the effect of his previous score.

"'Cause it's something you either know or you don't, McVirginal." Tony wasn't going to let McGee get away with the last jibe. "You obviously don't and I do. That's why you're destined to spend your career in the van and I…._Sweet_ Jesus….."

McGee looked up to see what had arrested Tony's thought process so spectacularly. For once Tony sounded like he really was thanking god. And McGee instantly understood why. Ziva was assigned to go undercover in the club as a cocktail waitress. She appeared in the bull-pen in her 'work' clothes; wearing a basque - all oyster silk & black lace – and an exceptionally short skirt. She was carrying ice-pick heeled sandals, walking in stockinged feet. Recovering more quickly than McGee, Tony grinned lasciviously.

"Someone lost a contact by your desk Zee-vah, wanna bend over and see if you can find it? It'll be more effective if you put the shoes on."

Ziva ignored the comment. She was expecting this from him. In a way, she had dreaded it. The reactions from others didn't bother her. For most of her life, she'd acted different rôles for different people in different situations. Sometimes it seemed as if her whole existence had been one long series of manufactured characters. Trained to use anything at her disposal, even sex, as a mechanism to complete her task or lure a mark. The personal cost should be no more than making the choice of an alternative weapon from her extensive arsenal. At times, she had adopted the persona of a self-possessed Mata Hari: exploiting herself, if necessary, to obtain the goal. The ends absolutely justified any means for her father, for the mission, for her duty. She could dispassionately assume the shell and no matter the consequences, she never permitted it to touch her internally.

She kept her back to him, placing a foot up on her chair as she buckled straps. Tony slid sideways to improve his view.

"I am armed." She warned.

"Wrong response, Zee-vah," he was charmingly unperturbed at being caught. "Flip the switch. Channel that inner Geisha not the Ninja."

Tony was different. For a start, frequently when he looked at her – like now - he provoked a reflexive response. Honest, uncomplicated desire drew something from within and caused the unsettling feeling of self-consciousness. And pleasure. Despite seeking detachment, she couldn't help liking the way he looked at her. He seemed to want Ziva, just Ziva; no qualification, requirement, or reservation involved. She wasn't obligated to succeed, nor conform to expectations, to earn his approval of her being. Tony effortlessly accessed that portion of herself which Ziva so meticulously isolated from the rest of the word. The notion frightened her; perceiving it as a risky betrayal of her discipline. Most significantly, Tony never just looked at her with pure lust. There was always an unquantifiable communication beneath it. Almost as if he was making an unspoken offer which came with a cast-iron guarantee. And Ziva was affected by it – she longed to accept the invitation. The intangible nature of this interaction disoriented her. Counter-intuitively, Ziva would have been less disconcerted if he did, merely, objectify her.

McGee was juggling whether it was appropriate to tell a co-worker the undercover get-up was perfect. Even if that meant telling her she looked like a very hot hooker. And if it was ever appropriate to tell a woman she looked like a very hot hooker. Gibbs was the only one not distracted. He was on the 'phone with Fornell. Abby came rushing out of the elevator and almost collided with him – he was surprised to see her.

"What'd ya got, Abbs?" pausing in his conversation.

"What? Oh nothing yet. The tests aren't done."

Gibbs raised an eyebrow, not needing to voice the question.

"Sorry Gibbs. Had to see 'Sleazy-Ziva'." Abby shook her head, as she surveyed her. "No, you still don't look cheap. You need more make-up and the other one was better."

Tony nearly drowned on his drink.

"You two picked it out? Together?" He spluttered. "Please tell me you helped her undress. Be graphic."

Ziva walked over to his desk and picked up a letter-opener; weighing the balance, as if considering throwing it.

"I will get even, Tony." The threat was only half teasing.

He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head; ratcheting up the appraising look and irrepressible grin.

"You're not gonna go all Santanico Pandemonium on me are you?"

The reference was lost on her.

"Oh come on, Zee-vah. 'From Dusk Till Dawn', vampires, Tarantino?" Tony prompted.

McGee had failed miserably in his struggle to formulate a tactful, yet accurate assessment of Ziva's outfit. And, though he'd never admit it, Tony's image of Abby selecting what was, basically, underwear had diverted his own thoughts. He may be a geek but he was, nevertheless, a red-blooded male geek.

"The snake stripper," he chimed in, nodding his appreciation, "before she turns into a blood-sucking monster."

"I am a blood-sucking monster?" She pointed the letter-opener at McGee – who quickly grasped for an explanation.

"No, the stripper is."

Tony noticed Ziva's continued lack of comprehension and he looked at her reflectively.

"You were fourteen in '96." His voice briefly lost the playful quality and she turned back toward him. The green eyes clouded; an odd expression crossed his face.

"What was it that year; Camp Construct-a-Claymore? Or Throat Slitting 101?"

Smoothly covering whatever thought had caused the fleeting change in mood.

"Are we done with the Victoria's Secret show?"

Gibbs was finished with his 'phone call. Angry to discover his crack unit had regressed into a teenage MCRT. The tone of his voice and rare allusion to pop culture succeeded in gaining their attention.

"Ziva; Tobias is sending someone over to take you to their briefing. DiNozzo; they've two agents inside. They'll connect with you once Harris or his guys show." He barked the summary as reminder they were supposed to be preparing for an op. "McGee; where are we on surveillance?"

"It's not good, Boss. No useful system for us in a third-rate place like this." McGee was a very quick study. "We'll link up with the FBI feed and comms."

* * *

The elevator delivered FBI Agent Ron Sacks.

"Christ. That's all we need." Tony muttered under his breath. "Agent Sacks, I'd say it's been too long 'cept know what? I doubt it'll ever be long enough." The broad smile was at odds with the sarcastic words.

"Piss off, DiNozzo." Sacks' pithy reply underlined the mutual antipathy between them. As did his dramatically altered tone and look of endorsement when he saw Ziva. "Officer David…."

"She's Agent David, now." Tony made a point of dropping the 'Probationary' tag from her title in his snarky interjection.

"Officer, Agent." Sacks shrugged. "We certainly appreciate you assisting us like this, Ziva."

She wasn't, necessarily, his type. However, he believed an attractive woman always deserved full recognition. As an extra benefit, his admiration seemed to be aggravating Tony; always a favorable outcome.

"I am happy to be of assistance to you, Agent Sacks." Tony grimaced at Sacks' ingratiating manner and the tilt of Ziva's head as she smiled in return.

"Still arresting the wrong people, Sacks?"

"Still bitching like an old lady on that one, DiNozzo?"

Sacks didn't even bother to glance in Tony's direction as he made the snide retort. Ziva was much easier on the eyes – he hadn't released the hand taken when he greeted her.

"Doesn't FBI stand for 'famous but incompetent'?"

Tony taunted again – territorial rights involuntarily asserting control of his behavior, though the threat was unfounded. This time, Sacks swung round to face Tony and a hint of aggression charged the squad-room.

"Oooooh, Eau de Testosterone." Abby exaggeratedly sniffed the air.

"Abby."

She decoded the message in the look Gibbs cast in her direction.

"I'm going, I'm going." Abby reluctantly headed back to her kingdom – sometimes it felt like she missed out on all the really good stuff - stunning McGee with her parting aside to him; "let me know if Tony pees on Ziva's desk."

"Ziva." Gibbs called her over for final instructions. The one-sharp-command style of leadership, raised professional conduct above personal enmities; effectively removing the latest source of tension from the vicinity of the two men.

'Hey Sacks," Tony sat upright in his chair and beckoned for him to come nearer. "You should let Zee-vah drive. She finds it helps her focus before going undercover."

He was completely straight-faced and convincingly sincere as he made the quiet suggestion. The FBI man was suspicious, though it made sense for Tony to be looking out for his partner. As Ziva picked up her coat and started to leave, Tony followed. Agent Sacks was impatient; relishing the twin prospects of ditching DiNozzo and a little inconsequential flirting with Ziva during the drive.

"Zee-vah, wait up. Necklace."

Turkish call-girls were unlikely to be wearing a Star of David. She unclasped the chain and handed it to him. Aware that within a remarkably short space of time, he had vexed, charmed and taken care of her - yet again. Stirring emotions and disrupting the regimented order which supplied security.

Tony noted with smug satisfaction Sacks had given her the car keys. He stood contemplating the fine silver talisman dangling from his fingers – warm from her skin - as the elevator doors closed.

"You seriously believe Ziva's less sexual now than she was five years ago?" McGee's incredulous question broke into his reverie.

"I take it back." Adding with a triumphant grin, "Think Sacks'll vomit?"


	3. Witchcraft

_**Those fingers in my hair, that sly come hither stare**_

_**That strips my conscience bare, it's witchcraft**_

_**Leigh & Coleman**_

* * *

The club wasn't as dire as Tony had predicted. It was a reasonable run-of-the-mill establishment for its genre; girls, poles, thumping music and what might, loosely, be termed 'mood' lighting. Most of the activities within the walls were, perhaps, sordid not criminal. Some of it would only be considered lawful if squinting at the legislation. And a small proportion was undoubtedly illegal; which is how Fornell had been able to establish his people on the premises. Pleasantly convincing the management, minor local undesirables, the FBI would turn a blind eye to any wrong-doing – their interest had a much wider scope. That, plus the less pleasant suggestion of charges involving domestic terrorism if assistance was not completely forthcoming, was persuasive.

Over the past week, on two non-consecutive nights, the team conducted the charade for nothing. The persons of interest had been no-shows. The FBI had acted on a tip their targets would be doing business here – and all they could do was wait. Additionally, one night was scratched as information changed at the last minute. Tony found the process interminably boring. He had been in more, and better, venues like this than he cared to remember. There was no novelty factor. For the third night he surveyed the room. His experience as cop, and natural ability to read people meant he could size up the clientèle with little or no effort. Tony occupied himself by dividing them into categories by value as witnesses. The respectable types too ashamed to confess they were at a strip club; guaranteed to involve lawyers. The types happy to admit they were present and willing to help; useless by virtue of partying too hard. There were the types who hated cops – any kind of cops – and would let their mother die before co-operating. Finally, the pathetic types so lost in implausible fantasies, the pope could sit next to them and they wouldn't notice.

Tony was sat to the side, toward the back, pondering Alice. The erratic schedule dictated he explain a little more about his job. Her legal background and intelligence meant she quickly grasped the principles and was impressed. They spent a great weekend together. Although he suspected it would crop up, in the future, the topic of Ziva wasn't discussed. Tony had been hopeful for the possibilities. Until this morning, when he woke, at four, sweating and frustrated. She had danced through his dreams again like an alluring, unattainable wraith.

He tried not to pass the time watching Ziva, though he was unable to refrain entirely. Set up strictly as a waitress; no hands on and no performing. She and Gibbs had crafted a Turkish identity. The chances of anyone in the place being able to converse with her were slim to none; the language barrier an excellent deterrent to unwelcome advances. That notwithstanding, due to the character of the club and its patrons, as the nights wore on and liquor consumption increased, there were inevitable skirmishes. Tony was entertained by her various methods for dampening over-enthusiastic ardor. He also speculated on where she had the weapon concealed and its nature. His prime suspects were a knife and her cleavage – staking a hefty amount on his deduction in a private wager with McGee.

Tony noticed four men taking seats. He recognized three as faces which had graced the plasma screen recently. Tony watched them for a while and Ziva hovered, monitoring their chatter. An added advantage to her cover; they might rely on her not understanding anything she overheard. Another unfamiliar man arrived.

* * *

"Still no sign of Harris," Tony rolled his head from side to side and sighed.

She was straddled across his legs, leaning back, with her elbows rested on the table. The move had upgraded Tony's visible status from that of creepy-voyeur-in-the-corner to bogus-but-believable customer. Ziva glanced over toward the bar. Their barman wasn't present.

"He may not meet with them tonight." She fixed him with a reproving look. "It was a knife and, yes, you are correct as to the location." displaying that unnatural prescience, once again.

Tony had been slowly running his middle finger-tip up along her diaphragm - to win his bet, to play his rôle and, if he were honest, because he was enjoying it. Tony suspected she was enjoying it too, despite the look. If she hadn't, his finger would be close to dislocation. He cocked an eyebrow.

"Was?"

Ziva shrugged carelessly. "It was uncomfortable with this." 'This' meant the green mini-dress she was wearing; which clung in all the right places and plunged in all the others.

"You should write a piece for Vogue; tips for accessorizing an assassin." He grinned, making fun of her reasoning - nodding toward the group under observation.

"Anything of interest from our very own Party of Five?"

"No. It is pleasure before business." Without warning, she shifted forward a little, loosening his tie and undoing his collar. "I believe they have ordered some personal entertainment."

A mischievous smile flitted around her mouth and Ziva slid forward much further.

"You're blocking my line of sight."

Realizing she just raised the stakes on his earlier caress. And deciding it had been a very bad move to set that particular ball in motion. He scrutinized her, trying to gauge where the undercover act ended and revenge for the ceaseless stripper jokes of the past few days began. When Ziva played, she usually did it for keeps.

"They are not going anywhere. See?"

As if she had synchronized the event to the second, a group of girls joined their targets. Ziva's smile became provocative.

"Sperando per una scopata facile più tardi, Antonio." She murmured against his ear.

Occasionally, when searching for the right phrase in English, Ziva would give Tony the Italian or Spanish equivalent. It was a sort of game they played. No-one acquainted with him was surprised to discover he had an extensive vocabulary of Italian slang, curses and sexual terminology. Except Tony was damn sure Ziva knew how to say 'an easy fuck' in English. Her inflection meant he could interpret it as a comment on the aspirations of their suspects - or an offer.

Tony had one arm stretched over the back of an adjacent chair. The other hand was holding a glass; his grip tensing slightly as he restrained the impulse to touch her again.

"Christ Zee-vah, this is unfair."

Not able to believe the incongruity of that remark as applied to himself. Sitting on his lap, whispering dirty Italian to him was one of the more innocuous means of retaliation available to her. It was a vastly improved method for relieving the tedium of watching guys hit on girls who were paid to be a sure thing. However, they were supposed to be working - even if, as Tony believed, the whole scheme was completely pointless – which meant paying attention. She was wreaking havoc on his ability to concentrate.

"And I don't recall requesting a fucking lap-dance."

The premonition he was destined for another night of disturbed sleep caused a trace of resentment.

"Would you?"

There was a different, less artificially seductive, note in her voice.

"No."

The exasperated answer firmly ending the game – she might view an affirmative as encouragement. He thought he detected a tiny flicker of rejection shadow Ziva's eyes. Her quicksilver personality had flipped through competent professional to playful Siren to his Ninja; captivating, contradictory Ziva. And, although he knew he shouldn't, Tony continued more softly;

"'Cause the rules only let you take it so far."

Ziva held his gaze unwaveringly as she breathed her next query.

"Would you ever break the rules?"

Tony swallowed, hesitating. They were no longer talking about strip club etiquette. The conversation had strayed, imperceptibly, into a negotiation about their singular, protracted waltz. It was a Pandora's Box on the scale of Fort Knox and equally as impenetrable. Neither of them would risk opening it more than the tiniest crack. Imprisoned by habitual avoidance, Tony bounced her fledgling bid back to Ziva.

"Would you want me to?"

* * *

FBI Agent Teodoro Martinez approached Tony and Ziva with admiration. They appeared exactly like a businessman and a call-girl on the verge of making out; faking the ruse with astonishing authenticity. Faces just inches apart; the intensity of the stare reminding him of the day he had married the wife he adored. The skill of the pretence wasn't entirely unexpected. Agent Yussif had given him a heads' up. This was the pair who, apparently, went all the way - just to sell a cover whilst under surveillance by two, separate, law enforcement agencies. The alleged existence of thermal-imaging footage had acquired near mythic status in some quarters of the J. Edgar Hoover Building.

Martinez had brought drinks and, more importantly, communication devices. The real purpose behind Tony and Ziva's tête-à-tête; it was a pre-arranged plan to be acted upon once any suspects arrived. Until there were people to monitor, there had been little point previously. In truth, no-one in the van would choose to listen to the background noise unless there was something worth listening in on. The agent assigned as part of club 'security' had been relaying photos of anyone noteworthy. The unknowns run through facial recognition software – a slow process.

"News of the mystery guests?" Tony glanced up at Martinez, who shook his head and returned to his post at the bar.

The interruption had re-established the status quo. The question between Tony and Ziva remained unanswered – equivocation their standard operating procedure. They only ever seemed to broach the subject at the most inopportune moments. A pattern of partially begun, eternally unfinished, mistimed dialogues; managed with such regularity it could almost be by design. Tonight, it was the renewed focus on the mission which allowed each to deflect without venturing any further; nothing resolved and nothing broken.

"Watch it with the big guy, Zee-vah."

"Why?" Her tone and expression implying his concern was unwarranted.

"Just a feeling." Tony's gut instinct was a close rival to Gibbs' for precision hunches. "Zee-vah, I'm not kidding." Sensing she was already dismissing the caution. She stood up.

"Is this the part where I make an indecent proposal so you can slap my face and flounce away?" He grinned. "'Cause, you know, I'm sure I can think of something a lot more inappropriate than Redford did." Suddenly adding, "Or did you decide I'm too old for you?"

Ziva narrowed her eyes slightly; enigmatically studying him.

"It would be more realistic for the reason to be I discovered you were in a relationship."

Tossing her head and leaving him to wonder how she defined 'realistic'.


	4. Call Me Irresponsible

_**Call me unpredictable**_

_**Tell me I'm impractical**_

_**Cahn & Van Heusen**_

* * *

Tony leaned against the wall of the club.

"There's nothing here. It's a group of guys out for a good time. And thank Christ someone is."

Gibbs' voice crackled in his ear.

"Sorry Boss." He tried to be persuasive. "We should call it. Find another angle."

He had come outside, ostensibly, to check in and hoped Gibbs would listen to his recommendation. Tony closed his eyes, seriously considering whether he could talk Martinez into spiking his next drink with a shot of vodka. Alcohol on the job was, naturally, prohibited. He hadn't realized how rattled he was, after the encounter with Ziva, until he was standing here – allowing the cool, still air to clear his thoughts. Eventually, he re-entered the club, reluctantly, convinced it was an exercise in futility. Noticing their table of suspects had disappeared, Tony scanned the room for Ziva. She was nowhere in sight. Vague unease took hold and he located Martinez.

"Where's Zee-vah?"

Martinez gave Tony a quizzical look.

"We could be in play. I was just coming to find you…."

"Where is she?"

Tony abruptly halted the explanation and the FBI agent was startled by the urgency in his voice. An intelligent, capable man; from his perspective the case had taken a positive turn.

"They've moved to a private room – upstairs – we might get something."

Tony shook his head.

"No, we won't." He thought for a moment. "Shit."

"Sitrep?" The calm inquiry indicating Gibbs was bothered by the development; not unduly but sufficient to put Tony on notice.

"Working on it."

Tony didn't have a sitrep. Standing at the bar, he listened as Martinez updated him. The targets had hooked up with others in the club. The contractor, Harris, never appeared. At least ten guys and eight girls were ensconced upstairs. Ziva was in the middle of it. How; Tony wasn't quite sure because this wasn't supposed to happen. Ziva hadn't used the duress word; which, in his opinion, signified absolutely nothing. The only circumstances under which he could conceive of her using a duress word would be if she were interrogated on her emotions. Tony surmised her independent streak had influenced events.

He knew she wasn't armed; knew that was somewhat irrelevant. Knew if they discovered she was bugged, Ziva would be in trouble. Earlier in the evening, one man had caught Tony's attention. A huge guy, easily 6' 6" - built like he had been hewn from Mt. Rushmore leftovers – plus he was with his buddies. Tony had noticed immediately the guy was unhealthily attracted to Ziva; he couldn't take his eyes off her. Something in the way the man had grabbed another girl set alarms shrieking in Tony's head; this one liked to hurt them. Tony assessed the options; certain there were no arms being dealt in this scenario. Nevertheless, there was the problem of jeopardizing the FBI's investigation with a full-scale bust – unless necessary. Gibbs' next communication nearly perforated an ear-drum.

"Get her out of there, DiNozzo."

The crunch of Ziva's link, as it was crushed converted mild trepidation into outright apprehension.

* * *

Ziva analyzed her position. She was unconcerned; Tony was downstairs, plus two FBI agents. Gibbs, McGee and more were outside - even if none of that were true, she wouldn't have been concerned. This was her element. She had calculated possible exit strategies and routes – including two windows. She had inventoried items available for use as weapons. Of the ten men in the room, four were too drunk to pose a credible threat. Three were of average height, weight and, she estimated, fighting prowess. Two were bigger and carried themselves with the air of experienced, capable adversaries. One of these was wearing a gun. She had discounted the girls as unlikely to become involved. Finally, there was the enormous guy who had just hit her. The one Tony had warned her about; O'Brien. Ziva was intimidated neither by his size, nor his overtly domineering manner.

On overhearing plans for the private party, Ziva had encouraged his attention. She utilized his interest to ensure an invite; sitting with him, flirting and playing the game. Sweetly compliant as he slipped an arm around her, a little too tightly, and guided her upstairs. Deciding to invoke Rule #18; she would seek forgiveness later rather than ask for Gibbs' blessing to alter the plan. The possibility for making some, any, headway in the tiresome case canceled any misgivings over exceeding the parameters of the operation. Or that she was in direct contravention of Tony's advice. Ziva had succeeded in noting several names. Watching the participants and listening to conversations, she concluded - as Tony had done solely on intuition – the gathering was no meeting of conspirators. There was nothing more to be gained by lingering; it was time to leave.

Discreetly Ziva had moved toward the door; until O'Brien trapped her in a corner. His rough advances dislodged the wire and it dropped to the floor. Ziva's Mossad background allowed her to remain self-possessed and not panic. She simply adjusted her exit strategy to accommodate a new situation. Swiftly creating an opportunity to escape; with the sultry suggestion, in heavily accented, broken English, of further intimacy on a sofa - aided by drinks. The levelheaded bluff nearly worked. As Ziva feigned a trip in the direction of the bar, O'Brien spotted the fallen device. Once realization set in, he brought his foot down on it and trailed after Ziva. Tapping Pierce, the man with the gun, and indicating he should follow. Unaware she was compromised; Ziva unhurriedly made for the door. If she hadn't paused to pick-pocket a suspect's smartphone, Ziva would have evaded him. The delay as she concealed the cell was the mistake which enabled O'Brien to catch up with her. He yanked her around into the entrance hallway, slamming her against the wall. Hot-tempered and only too happy to inflict pain, he struck her face.

"Explain." Holding the shattered pieces of the bug in the palm of his hand; Pierce, at first, had brushed off his friend's signal and O'Brien impatiently motioned for him to join them.

Ziva said nothing. She surveyed him; coolly taking a breath as if she were relaxing. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed Pierce's progression through the room. She had sized up O'Brien and was waiting for the other man to draw level before kick-starting the chain reaction. Mentally, Ziva was already focused two stages into the fight. O'Brien smacked her across the face with the back of his hand for the second time.

"I said explain, bitch." A bully by nature, he was confused by her eerie calm and unfazed demeanor.

"Touch me again and I will castrate you."

The icy menace was as unexpected as her flawless command of language. Gone was the eager-to-please exotic whore; supplanted by something reminiscent of a rattler twitching its tail.

At the same time Tony lurched through the door.

"Oh hey guys. Guess this isn't the head."

He was disheveled, reeking of whisky; every inch the inebriated lothario. He took a few steps forward; directing a dazzling smile and a leering look at a very pretty, very tipsy girl passing the opposite doorway.

"Hi Sweetcheeks."

The majority of the raucous partygoers in the main, inner, space hadn't notice the commotion. With O'Brien's attention diverted, Ziva darted around him. To Tony's annoyance, she proceeded in the opposite direction; away from him and the exit. In anticipation of a move to grab her, Tony placed himself directly in the big man's path - an unmistakable challenge. All the more surprising because Tony was suddenly stone-cold sober.

"Well, look who took 'Supersize Me' as an order."

Easily ducking O'Brien's first punches and connecting with one of his own. The reason for Ziva's detour became apparent. Pierce, already en route, had quickened his pace at Tony's dramatic entrance. He pushed the pretty girl out of his way, arm reaching toward Tony.

"This is a priv…."

In the space of a blurred instant, Ziva was blocking him. Her left hand bracing the shoulder of his outstretched limb as, using momentum against him, her right bent his fingers back and twisted his wrist. He recoiled in pain. Ziva let go; only to clamp fingers, with vise-like force, around Pierce's windpipe and deftly drew his gun with her other hand. Shoving him away, as he clutched his throat; coughing and off-balance. Before O'Brien could launch another assault at Tony, she had pivoted.

"I would not if I were you."

With a chillingly arch smile and raised eyebrow; the look in her eyes convincing O'Brien she would squeeze the trigger in less than a heartbeat if he moved. The whole process had lasted seconds; the reflexive movements unleashed with perfect timing and efficient execution. Ziva stood, steadily aiming the gun, serene and not even out of breath; the embodiment of divinely attractive, dangerous grace.

Tony had coordinated the intervention with the two FBI agents. 'Security' personnel arrived on the scene, virtually immediately. Supposedly breaking up an altercation caused by crashers to a private party; hustling Tony and Ziva out before shock wore off and too many questions were asked.

* * *

"I got her, Boss." Tony kept hold of Ziva, by the arm, as he marched her outside through an emergency exit. Once at ground level, clear of the building, he spun her around to face him.

"Observe and report, Zee-vah. Need me to translate _that_ for you 'cause, obviously, you didn't fucking understand the English instructions?"

His overwhelming relief mitigated the harsh words a little; although it was clear Tony was less than pleased. Ziva's adrenaline rush was yet to subside and she was unapologetic. She flaunted the smartphone with a flourish as if she had won a prize.

"I did observe, Tony. I have yet to make my report on the information I obtained."

There were times when he felt like throttling her for this attitude and others when he found it unquestionably hot. On this occasion it was the former. Suddenly aware they had an audience in Gibbs, who had performed his usual trick of appearing out of thin air, and McGee who must have slipstreamed in his wake, Tony let the subject drop. He flexed his fingers – O'Brien's jaw was undoubtedly made of granite.

"Jesus, Zee-vah, I doubt that guy's even evolved opposable thumbs."

She laughed; the potential for an argument dissipated by the joke. At the car, he tossed Ziva the keys. She was amazed, Tony rarely let her drive.

"We get stopped, the LEOs 'll think DUI and I don't want to waste time on explanations." He shrugged in resignation. "Of course we're more likely to be stopped with you driving."

"Why _do_ you smell as if you have bathed in Scotch?" Ziva wrinkled her nose.

In the formulation of his hasty plan, Tony had applied the liquor as an impromptu aftershave, splashed some on his shirt and gargled with it. He'd also permitted himself one, good swallow in the event he had to take on O'Brien.

"So they'd buy I was drunk 'til I found you."

"Clever." Under the asylum provided by the darkness of the car's interior Ziva graciously acknowledged Tony's aid. "Thank you for having my back."

Her buzz was abating and Ziva's conscience niggled. After all, he had warned her. She was confident she would have effected an escape without his assistance – though perhaps with a few more bruises. There was a cost to the admission; total self-reliance was a crucial component to her identity. The gratification afforded by Tony's presence in her life was unnerving.

"Someone has to. 'Cause you sure as hell don't."

There was a hint of reprimand in his voice. Tony's cell rang and he retrieved it; turning away from Ziva when he saw the caller I.D.

"Yeah… maybe, it'll be late though."

Ziva made a high speed left on a light which had changed to red two seconds earlier; refocusing the creeping disconsolation which exposed feelings she would prefer remain unexamined. She knew why Tony didn't want to be delayed.


	5. Between The Devil

_**You've got me in between**_

_**The devil and the deep blue sea**_

_**Arlen & Koehler [Between The Devil & The Deep Blue Sea]**_

* * *

The détente of the previous night was a false dawn. Tony's mood was fractious from the minute he arrived at the office. After the club fiasco, he had gone directly to Alice's apartment. Forgetting she might wish to know the reason his shirt was drenched in whisky. He explained as succinctly as he could – without too many details. Referring to an operation, though not the locale, and circumspect in his account of Ziva's predicament. Alice was supportive and understanding. Which should have been a good thing; being with her should have soothed the irritation. Tony realized his anxiety on discovery of Ziva's foolhardiness surpassed what would be deemed appropriate for a merely professional partner. Also the diffident, almost-revelatory-but-not-quite-significant-enough conversation with Ziva lurked in the recesses of his mind. And he was forced to actively block out the thoughts kindled by the physical closeness with her. Tony's failure to reconcile all those feelings with the fact he was someone's boyfriend meant sleep was elusive. Alice's response to his showing up, in the middle of the night, after a ballsed up day was impeccable; yet it supplied no comfort. The reaction of the thoughtful, concerned woman left him numb; as though a contact was missing in the circuit. The ramifications of that absence further highlighted his restlessness. Tony found himself sitting at his desk at 5:55 that morning. McGee's and, in particular, Ziva's teasing speculation as to the cause of his recent punctuality and lack of humor, grated.

The team's involvement in the FBI case took a backseat as another, more pressing issue arose. A Naval Officer had disappeared; one who had access and responsibility for mid-level classified data. The atmosphere had been churning all morning. An indistinct, inauspicious eddy swirling in the air - as if the Furies were fluttering over the Navy Yard.

"Nice job last night, by the way, Tony."

McGee finished transmitting what few facts were known, on the new investigation, to the plasma. Ziva began the day self-satisfied with her conduct during the joint op. Gibbs had remonstrated with her; though it hadn't been a full-scale scolding. The value of the intel. contained within the smartphone was unknown - time would tell - nevertheless, it was the only concrete lead obtained. Everyone was grateful for an end to the stake-out. Although the wasted time and effort were disheartening, the position had been clarified.

"There is a strategy for every opponent."

Tony recognized the conceit evident in Ziva's voice and was irked by it.

"Yeah, lucky for us that strategy took the form of a 9mm Glock; otherwise mountain man would probably be gnawing on my Radius, right about now."

It could have been one of his light-hearted comments. The sarcasm revealed otherwise. McGee sighed. Tony and Ziva started sparring the day they met; the conditions under which they met dictated that made sense. What didn't make sense was the discord had continued for five years – punctuated by moments of extraordinary affinity. McGee found it fascinating and perplexing. They worked so closely together, occasional disagreements between colleagues were to be expected. Healthy debate should be encouraged. Tony and Ziva did squabble and tease about cases, or other matters, just like everyone else. However, unlike everyone else, they also clashed in another, separate dimension. It was if they were positively and negatively charged particles in an electromagnetic field. Drawn to each other; generating an energy current which, at times, discharged like a solar flare if the field fluctuated. The signs suggested this was of those episodes.

"Here's a tip, Zee-vah; sometimes the guy in a room who looks like an oversized psycho, really is an oversized psycho." He dispensed the advice with mock patience as if she were incapable of grasping a difficult principle. "They're not all Werth, you know."

Damon Werth was something of an Achilles' heel for Tony. The former Marine kept drifting into and out of the picture; more specifically, drifting into Ziva's picture. Essentially, Tony thought the guy was OK – except when it came to Ziva. On paper it was a thoroughly predictable friendship - and in reality perfectly platonic. They had many experiences and interests in common. Both were former soldiers with excellent combat skills, both with a propensity for outbreaks of sudden, sometimes brutal, violence. Tony was plagued by a compulsive dislike of the bond Werth had formed with Ziva. He imagined their pillow talk revolved around the merits of cold drawn piano wire over the regular stuff for garroting people. Werth was much nearer to her in age.

"Over-confidence was O'Brien's weakness," Ziva was equally patronizing in her reply. "His error…."

"I could say the same god-damned thing about you." Tony interrupted disparagingly.

His critical attitude touched off Ziva's fuse. The fight which had been avoided last night flared into existence. McGee heartily wished he hadn't raised the topic of the stake-out. Her expression hardened, anger flashed in her eyes.

"I was not over-confident." fiercely refuting the accusation. "I had made a thorough assessment of the situation. The ratio of possible risk weighed against potential benefit was acceptable."

She didn't need his protection – not in the conventional sense anyway. Ziva was more than capable of mounting her own, extremely effective, defense. She could outshoot him; not by much with a handgun but, undeniably, she had the superior skill. The difference was the way Ziva handled a firearm, with an unthinking fluency as if it were an extension of herself – another part of her body. It was no contest with a rifle. Tony had acted as spotter for her once. And he had marveled as she stilled that vital energy usually so prevalent; exhibiting a dissociative patience. Of the many adjectives applicable Ziva, not one likely to feature on anyone's top ten. Absolute concentration yet absolutely relaxed; acquiring her target, awaiting the order and dispassionately making her kill. Like an angel balancing on a needle, bringing death. They were fairly matched when it came to knives. Ziva had the advantage of being able to view everyday items in terms of lethality; pens, paperclips and probably cotton balls. Tony harbored the belief he could possibly take her in a physical fight - if the circumstances were right. He was bigger, stronger and every bit as fit she was versus Ziva's adaptable, instinctual Ninja mode. In practical terms, she definitely didn't need a guardian.

"Acceptable to who?"

Tony was goaded by her self-righteous manner and refusal to admit the possibility of error. Ziva stalked over to the filing cabinet, next to Tony's desk. The sting of his mocking was exacerbated by the legitimacy of his charge. Last night she had ignored the qualms about over-stepping the limit of her instructions. More vexing; Tony's sense O'Brien would cause problems had proved annoyingly accurate. And she was aggrieved by Tony's unusual animosity. He may have instigated the confrontation; Ziva's contrary nature meant she would be there to finish it. She jerked open a drawer before turning to face him.

"A certain degree of built-in flexibility should be mandatory for any planned operation and…."

"You know, someone really should start a list of the allegedly smart yet totally fucking insane logic of one Ziva David."

Tony was supremely scornful as he cut her off again. The way he said her name should have been the omen presaging he was truly close to losing his temper.

This was why she needed his protection. The same clinical reasoning Ziva applied to her objectives, she applied to her safety. Tony knew it was more than ambition and dedication. She seemed to circumvent the natural instinct for self-preservation. Driven to accomplish whatever task she had been set. It wasn't that she didn't consider any dangers, she did. The risks or penalties were all factored into her evaluation and blithely disregarded. Subordinate to the priority of achievement. It was almost as if she thought of herself disposable somehow; an asset – a mindset which Tony found infinitely scary. He also suspected Ziva sought reassurance in such behavior. Using the thrill of success to safeguard against wounds to her psyche; wounds he could only guess at. So far she had been fortunate. Tony worried one day she would miscalculate or, maybe not even Ziva, maybe someone else would screw up – with appalling consequences. In contrast to most people, Tony knew exactly what his worst nightmare felt like; he had grieved for her once before.

"I came to no harm." The discoloration on her face, where O'Brien's hand had left its mark, illustrated the elasticity of this truth. Ziva tilted her head with a glacial, condescending smile. "Tony, what is your point? I do not understand why we are fighting."

She was right. It was a petty dispute of negligible importance. The sensible course of action would be tactical withdrawal before it escalated. Instead tired, troubled frustration ignited Tony's temper with a vengeance. He stood up, moving to within a hair's breadth of her.

"Why? Oh, I don't know." No longer attempting to keep the anger in check, his voice was bitingly sardonic. "How 'bout 'cause you're pathologically fixated on pushing that fucking self-destruct button of yours and I'm sick of dealing with the fall-out?" And he walked away.

The content, tone and volume of his comment caused a momentary, awkward, hush to fall over the industry of the office. All were aware of Tony's heroic 'resurrection' of Ziva and the events surrounding the rescue. It was a card he never played. One or two people scurried toward the bathrooms. If Tony and Ziva's conflict re-located, it might lead to inconveniently locked doors. Normal activity resumed. McGee hunched closer to his computer. Now this one had legs - it would go for days. The field hadn't just fluctuated, it had shifted. The last time stresses reached such a level of ferocity – open warfare in the squad room - he had wound up in the clutches of a Somali warlord.

* * *

Coming down the stairs, Gibbs overheard the argument and identified it as a continuation of tensions from the night before. Not for the first time, he speculated as to how long before the genie escaped the bottle – and smashed it to ensure no recapture. Gibbs knew the romance existed – he was just waiting to see when, and if, the truth would ever dawn on them. His rule was 'Never Date a Co-Worker'. The normal trials and tribulations of a relationship would place additional strain on working conditions hazardous enough. For Tony and Ziva, any strain on a working relationship, in a theoretical sense, was immaterial. They were, in essence, already a couple. Tony and Ziva cared for and criticized each other, fought for and with each other, helped and hurt each other. At this point, the professional partnership was in no jeopardy. It had survived – even thrived upon - the duration of one five-year-long date. The personal relationship was the area under extreme pressure. Mostly, in Gibbs' opinion, because Tony and Ziva were more adept at solving the puzzles of others, than they were at managing their own.


	6. Ev'ry Time

_**Everytime we say goodbye, I die a little**_

_**Everytime we say goodbye, I wonder why a little**_

_**Cole Porter [Ev'ry Time We Say Goodbye]**_

* * *

No-one knew but Tony and Ziva had slept together once. On occasion, Ziva was inclined to question if Tony knew it – if he remembered. It happened in the aftermath of Jenny's death; the night before he left for the USS Ronald Reagan. The fun, flirty trip in California had abruptly transformed into a tense, tragic disaster. Even after the whole story emerged - Jenny's illness and retribution from Paris – Tony and Ziva were shell-shocked. Director Vance's decision to terminate her position as Mossad Liason Officer was the final piece completing a devastating picture.

Ziva was more than a little fuzzy on the details of that night. She had devised a scheme to remain in D.C. She liked America and although, officially, a Mossad operative, she increasingly thought of herself as one of Gibbs' team; an NCIS agent. Ziva was reluctant to surrender that sense and, even more reluctant to become ensnared in the labyrinthine workings of Mossad again. Director Shepard had been her friend, her contact. Vance was her father's friend. She knew her recall had been brokered between the two men; her wishes irrelevant. However, Ziva was optimistic that Eli could be persuaded into appointing her to the embassy delegation – not permanently back in Tel Aviv. And, deep down, below all the solid, sensible excuses was Tony. Ziva didn't want to go back to Israel because he would, eventually, return to D.C. and she intended to be there when he did.

He had arrived, late, with a bottle of Tequila. Ziva was worried about him; Tony blamed himself and didn't handle loss well. Ziva also knew Jenny was the second female agent, closely connected with their team, to be gunned down in three years. She remembered drinking Tequila and talking with him. She remembered standing at her front door. She didn't remember how they ended up in her bedroom. She definitely remembered the sex because there was a fervent yet oddly impersonal quality to it. As if they deliberately wanted to avoid any attachment; like they were trying to rid themselves of each other. And she remembered she heard the door close when she was in the kitchen. He had gone; no goodbye, no note, nothing.

He never called. On the rebound from nearly three years of whatever – even now she wouldn't know how to describe it - Ziva took dangerous missions and found solace in the arms of Michael Rivkin. Once reunited with Tony, back at NCIS, that night was never mentioned. He didn't offer any explanation for his behavior. Ziva shut down everything. She contained the bubbling, roiling feelings – dismissing the episode as a one off between two adults. She withdrew her trust and constructed a barrier; partitioning off the hurt. Rivkin took full advantage of her weakness and used her. When the new relationship emerged as an issue, Tony always, always insisted he wasn't jealous – merely doing his job. The more Tony tried to connect on the subject, the harder Ziva pulled away from him. It didn't matter Tony was entirely correct in his suspicions, nor that he had protected her.

"I did it for you, Zee-vah." The words didn't register at the time; all the hurt and disappointment blinding her. She rejoined Mossad completely. They didn't say goodbye on that occasion either. And he never called.

Ziva viewed the Somalia operation as atonement for Michael and her lapse in judgment. Her father, her own sense of duty demanded a result and she would pursue it to the bitter end. After four months of captivity and suffering and reflection – she wanted to die. And then he appeared in front of her – apparently in as much trouble as she was - a prisoner. The grin, the charm, the cavalier manner under pressure, and that look in his eyes; all materialized out of nowhere. Tony had come to rescue her; he had risked everything for her – again. Ziva didn't understand.

"So you pleased to see me?" The circumstances notwithstanding, she could have at least said yes. Even if she saved the truth - more than he would ever know – for another, less dire, moment.

Slowly, delicately, they'd started over.

"So what does matter?" Their working partnership provided the answer. She repressed the impulse to declare that he mattered - so very much.

Slowly the stiff, awkward exchanges eased. Slowly they rebuilt their relationship; interring the other, anonymous, bond. There was safety in hiding from the emotions. The closeness and empathy ascribed to the pinnacle of professionalism. Each missed opportunity or interrupted conversation compounded the difficulty of the subject for the next time. A conspiracy of mistakes against Ziva's desires and aspirations - it always went wrong. He was sent to Mexico and she to Miami – he didn't say goodbye then. And neither of them called.

* * *

Tony frequently wondered about the night before he joined the Supercarrier; wondered and regretted. He had gone to see Ziva; just being with her felt good and, that night, he'd craved the feeling. The specifics of what happened next were hazy. He knew they weren't completely sober and why. He knew one thing had led to another. He knew they hadn't even really bothered to undress and why. The weird thing was it hadn't been that memorable – he didn't know why. Tony guessed the Tequila possibly hadn't helped there. Aside from that, it was too detached, too neutral. They'd just fucked each other. As if they were both holding back; resisting any connection. It was unlike his customary hitch and ditch encounters – in those cases a lack of engagement was a highly desirable attribute. And he knew he'd left without saying anything and why.

Part of the reason was habit; he was Anthony DiNozzo and that's what he did. Part of the reason was he couldn't shake the sense they'd made some dreadful mistake. Even though, by the strictest interpretation of the rules, they hadn't transgressed. Ziva was no longer Liaison Officer to NCIS and Tony was consigned to Dante's lesser known circle of hell; Agent Afloat. However, the most salient – though purposely unclaimed - reason was the need for a clean, surgical break. The only way he could deal with separation from her. He didn't call. Because of the way he'd left and because talking to her would aggravate missing her. Perhaps arrogantly, he assumed she would still be his – once he figured out, exactly, what he meant by 'his'. They would pick up where they left off. There would be time to explain, tell her how he felt – once he figured that out too.

"You could have called." The perfect opening left orphaned without answer. So they didn't talk about it.

And then, gradually, Tony's life became unglued. Ziva was in love with someone else; someone who was causing her harm.

"Are you jealous?" Tony continuously, emphatically denied it. He had to; jealousy carried all kinds of significance he was unable to face. If he was jealous, then there was attachment. If there was attachment then he cared. And, if he cared, what was he prepared to do about it.

Although not his intention to kill him, Tony did derive a certain perverse satisfaction from having ended Rivkin. The smug, self-serving bastard was no great loss to the world; Rivkin had endangered his Ninja. A feat he managed to repeat from beyond the grave because she replaced him on the Somalia op. It was a fact which only served to magnify Tony's private sense of vindication over Rivkin's demise. Something Tony wouldn't ever- couldn't - admit to Ziva; to this day he was unsure of whether she loved Rivkin. However, guilt over the consequences of his actions still haunted him. The brilliance - for which she was so aptly named – was nearly extinguished by Saleem. And Tony had vowed not to wound her again. The chance to explain never presented itself. They didn't talk about it.

They had started over. In Paris, they shared a bed. Both pretended there was no additional awkwardness linked to previous events. Both behaved as if they had never done it before. The subject so sensitive neither referred to their portrayal as man and wife on an assignment. Both ensured they hugged their respective edges with almost fanatical zeal. Efforts rendered completely null and void; in the morning they awoke comfortably draped around each other. They didn't talk about that either.

"Like it was meant to be." He had flippantly dismissed her remark. Essentially declaring he didn't believe in the concept; instead of finding some way to inform her that his soul-mate sat opposite him every day. Their relationship could be defined by what they didn't say. An impermeable cloak of silence surrounding intentions and longing; as if not articulating the feelings meant Tony wouldn't have to wrestle with them. Only it didn't work like that. And past sins of omission stacked up to smother future ones.


	7. Crazy

_**I'm crazy, crazy for feelin' so lonely**_

_**And I'm crazy, crazy for feelin' so blue**_

_**Willie Nelson**_

* * *

McGee was correct in his prediction. When Tony had stormed off to the break-room, it had only supplied a temporary armistice. The rest of that had passed with minimal interaction between Tony and Ziva; the mood in the bull-pen subdued and disagreeable. They had all devoted themselves to the whereabouts of Capt. Faulkner. This morning Tony was, once again, first to arrive and ill-humored. Ziva was still smarting from the hostilities of yesterday. The thumb-screws on the tension began tightening. Gibbs increased the unpleasant atmosphere; he was more taciturn and unforgiving of error than usual.

Tony was texting. Ziva watched from her desk, meditatively toying with her necklace.

"The last time you were a possum about a girlfriend it was serious, was it not?"

"The term is squirrely." No amused correction – just a curt statement. "Nice reminder. Forget to load the human program this morning?"

Ziva was sensitive to the widely held belief amongst her co-workers she lacked empathy – an android.

"Possums play dead. Squirrels hide things." McGee attempted to intercede - like the child of dysfunctional parents. "Not that you're hiding anything Tony….or there's anything wrong with that…if you were…or did want to hide something." His stammering endeavor failed.

"Evidently you did not delete hypocrisy where it concerns matters of privacy." Ziva jabbed back spitefully. Tony had atrocious boundary issues when it came to minding his own business.

McGee didn't know which was worse; heavy silence or sporadic sniping. It was only a matter of time; one of them would score a bull's-eye and the bickering would boil over. Gibbs marched through on a coffee run.

"DiNozzo: Director Vance's office. Now." His testy instruction was without further explanation. "By the time I get back, somebody better have somethin'." Gibbs was grouchier than an hour ago.

Tony slid back his chair; fastening his top button and straightening his tie. He looked across at Ziva, their gaze holding for a moment, before he headed for the stairs. McGee shook his head – it was ridiculous, comic even. One minute Tony and Ziva were trading malicious insults for, apparently, no other purpose than to needle each other. The next their eyes were locked in some profound exchange because one of them might be in trouble. Ziva saw Tony take his 'phone out again.

She tried to ignore the little pang of despondency; he was hoping she had responded. Alice. A shadowy nemesis; replete with every virtue and positive attribute a woman could possess - because that's how jealousy operates. Alice. Only on the scene for a short while, the influence was discernable. Tony was less the playboy, he came to work early; he seemed serious and pre-occupied. In a fit of what, Ziva conceded, could be considered childish pique, she had googled her rival. Although eminently qualified to undertake a thoroughly detailed investigation, she resisted the urge as excessive. Alice. The search had yielded little more than she already knew; apart from the meaning of the name.

* * *

Tony stood in front of Vance's desk; similar to being called to the Principal's office except the repercussions were usually more serious than spending a Saturday in detention. The director was newly returned to duty – the severity of his injuries meant recovery was slow.

"Agent DiNozzo, I'm sending you to Pearl o.…"

"I didn't f….I didn't screw up this time." Tony's immediate protest at assumed injustice reinforced the sense of being back at school.

"Did I say you had, Agent DiNozzo?" A touch of temper sharply displaying his disapproval of Tony's outburst; the Director tolerated neither sheep, nor insubordination.

"No Sir."

"I'm sending you to Pearl on temporary assignment." Vance impatiently held up a hand to forestall Tony's second, more polite, interruption. "You heard about Giordano?"

"Yes Sir." Tony took the hint.

"They're a man down." Vance shifted slightly in his chair with a twinge of discomfort. "Craig's out on maternity leave. She's happy to re-arrange but it'll take a little time to organize." The dull ache occasionally made its presence known with a stronger reminder; he was trying to tough it out in order to reduce his pain medication. "You understand?"

"Yes Sir, of course, Sir." Tony had adopted passive aggression; an attitude at which he was extremely gifted. There could be no complaint about the crisp, prompt answers. The body language and look in his eyes, however, made evident his dislike of the proposal.

"Their team has taken a hit. They need an experienced, capable Field Agent to step up to the plate." Vance's wounds had not diminished his ability to give a lecture; forcefully and leaving no doubt as to the imprudence of dissent. "I chose you. Am I wrong in that decision?"

"No Sir."

"Good. Go home, get organized. You're on a wake up – zero six hundred out of Andrews." He handed over a thick manila folder and noted the distrustful expression. "Agency's been in the spotlight recently." Vance regarded Tony thoughtfully. "We don't need our ability to respond in difficult circumstances called into question. This _is_ only temporary."

"Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir." There was a little less aggressive and a little more passive in Tony's final reply.

* * *

"Yes, I'll hold."

Tony was on the 'phone.

"So, Tony, Hawaii," McGee struck an appropriately envious note; seeking to disperse the ominous aura growing in the bull-pen. "Beaches, babes, bikinis – it's your perfect assignment."

"Yeah, thanks for that McGarret. The key word is assignment and…." using the concurrent conversations to vent the resentment bottled in Vance's office. "No, I don't want to leave a god-damned message."

He was trying to contact Alice. The name meant Noble Truth and the irony was not lost on Ziva. Alice would have nothing more sinister in her past than the odd unpaid parking ticket or slightly creative tax return. Perhaps she had refused to buy Girl Scout Cookies once. She would be able neither to conceive of, nor conduct some of the actions which Ziva had performed. She would be open, uncomplicated and untroubled. Alice. The name alone starkly illuminated Ziva's demons. The skill set, of which Ziva was so rightly proud, was also the source of much introspection. Her own name meant Brightness and, yet, she had dwelt in regions of near-Cimmerian quality. Alice would not have the specialized knowledge of countless, varied ways to kill or harm people. She would not require such knowledge. Alice would not need to shield herself from the horrors of what she had done. Deeds carried out in good faith but some of which were undoubtedly questionable in terms of morality. Alice would not have followed a path of devoted obedience and loyalty which culminated - at barely age 23 - in acting as judge, jury and executioner for her own half-brother. Alice would not have spent four months at the mercy of people for whom cruelly degrading you was a lucky bonus – terror and torture were the serious payoffs. Alice was not 'damaged goods'.

"Hi, sorry to drag you away…." Tony sounded uncomfortable. "Um, something's come up…."

Ziva was eavesdropping whilst looking as if she was concentrating on the plasma screen with McGee.

Much of Ziva's life as a Mossad operative, she did not regret. Her activities were justified and sanctioned - which she would repeat without hesitation. Ari's death was another matter; despite her conviction it was the only legitimate option available. He had prosecuted a vendetta against his own warped version of reality. Ziva re-balanced the scales for Kate's murder, she saved Gibbs' life and, in a way, she released Ari from his torment. Nevertheless, it was an almost intolerable burden and the weight had aged Ziva beyond her years. He was her brother. The boy with whom she'd skinned knees; who taught her to throw a knife, climb a tree. Who first enlightened Ziva to the complexities of her existence and demonstrated blood isn't always thicker than water. That her father's motives and choices were as complicated as the world in which he operated. Ziva requested the NCIS position to escape the maelstrom of uncertainty which engulfed five years ago - cashing in a favor from Jenny to save her soul.

"….It's important." Aware Ziva was listening in, Tony walked over to the windows. "….kinda now?"

Gradually, the experience at NCIS had re-wired Ziva; with Gibbs as chief electrician. He showed Ziva that her superlative, awful expertise could be applied for good. That loyalty need not be manipulated; not all principles are abandoned for the sake of expediency. And that it was possible to make mistakes, make amends and be forgiven. Her worth was more than the sum of her dreadful talents; she was person with strengths and failings and feelings. This re-structuring came at the price of unfamiliar confusion: a direct result of her susceptibility to Tony. Only Gibbs knew the details of what transpired in his basement and even he, once, had questioned Ziva's behavior. His doubt had hurt. She daren't imagine the pain if Tony were to discover the truth; that unguarded, unconditional look in his eyes would vanish forever. In times of turmoil and distress, Ziva clung to the rationality and impartiality instilled by her training. She suppressed emotions as unsafe, unreliable and treacherous. Tony undermined her self-imposed quarantine. He made Ziva want to relinquish the armor. An impossible desire; because of who she was, what she had done. Alice would have no terrible secrets to be borne in solitude.

Tony returned to his desk to collect his badge and gun. He paused, casting an odd look at Ziva. She was avoiding his eyes and hadn't said a word since Tony announced the news of his departure.

"Well, look on the bright side it'll be warmer than here." McGee was ineffectually trying to compensate for the invisible chasm widening, by the second, between Tony and Ziva.

"OK. So you volunteer then." Tony snapped. He picked up the folder Vance had given him.

At last, Ziva spoke. She meant to offer sympathy; share his dissatisfaction at the unfairness, at the disruption to his life; his relationship.

"You did not volunteer, Tony, you got orders. It is…."

Mired in her own misery; the remark was matter-of-fact, closer to indifference. Before she could fully articulate her meaning and modify her delivery, the damage was done. Tony didn't wait to hear the rest. His quiet reply, as he strode past her desk, was scathing and brutally dismissive.

"Oh please, Ziva, spare me the fucking 'Spartans, what is your profession?' speech."

* * *

According to the legend, Cupid exerts his influence in many guises. One of his more unlikely manifestations would be in the form of Timothy McGee. He didn't want to be a matchmaker; he considered himself a peacemaker. McGee sought to gently rectify misjudgments, or misunderstandings between his friends. It was not entirely selfless in its aim either. If Tony and Ziva were operating at normal voltage, life was more pleasant; still unpredictable but more pleasant.

"There's nothing in his 'phone records, nothing on his laptop and nothing from his wife; they were happy."

McGee was not looking forward to telling Gibbs the net value of the trip was zero. He peeked across at Ziva; who was staring out of the car window – apparently not listening. She had been intermittently lost in thought since Tony had left the Navy Yard.

"Ziva?"

"If you make a bad bargain, hug it all the tighter." Ziva dragged her attention out of her absorption - back to the case.

"Lincoln. Wow, you really have been studying American history." McGee had always respected Ziva's intellect. "You don't think they were happy?"

"I think he improved his appearance, lost weight, altered habits."

"Well that doesn't mean anything." McGee himself had slimmed down and it suited him. In McGee's case there was no hidden rationale – duplicity was not part of his make-up.

"It does if he changed his behavior for someone." Ziva's voice was flat.

"And you think Mrs. Faulkner knows?" McGee tentatively made his opening gambit. "This is why we need Tony, right?"

He had ensured he drove – making Ziva mad whilst she was in charge of a vehicle would be unwise. Tony was unhappy, Ziva was unhappy. As one of Gibbs' team, McGee didn't believe in coincidences.

"You can tell him we think maybe the wife did it." Here was the tricky bit, "because you're going to see him….before he leaves, aren't you?" He lightly planted the seed of a possible avenue to peace.

There was no response. McGee frowned. Tony was so much better at handling Ziva. Faultlessly selecting which technique would be effective; sometimes teasing, sometimes solicitous, and sometimes, when required, facing down her fiery disposition. Dauntless in his determination until he restored reason or, her latest tempest wore itself out – whichever came first. McGee admired the older man's confidence and self-assurance. Except, recently, Tony seemed to have lost his touch with Ziva. McGee renewed his efforts.

"I mean, you know he hates being sent away." He hoped to elicit the friendship as opposed to the ill-feeling.

She gave him a wan smile.

"McGee, I do not think Tony would appreciate an interruption tonight."


	8. How Could You

_**It was on a night like this**_

_**You left me and didn't leave a kiss**_

_**Dubin & Warren**_

* * *

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Ziva was taken aback by the greeting.

She didn't answer. He let the front door swing open and walked back to his completed packing and preparations. Tony wasn't happy to see Ziva. His tolerance threshold for pretty much everything had crossed into negative territory sometime around the middle of last week. And he knew his mood hadn't improved. Ziva quietly followed him. She had wasted several, unusually indecisive, hours mulling over whether to be guided by McGee's advice. Eventually, screwing up her courage – itself an unaccustomed task – on the basis Tony needn't see her if he didn't want to; if he weren't alone.

"Well?" Normally, Tony would have made some attempt at conciliation; taken the first step – not tonight.

Moreover, his brusque manner increased Ziva's discomfort. Initiating this sort of communication, without his reciprocation, was not something at which she excelled. She remained silent – cautiously watching him.

"Look, Ziva, I'm on a flight at zero stupid hours. If you're here for a reason, can we cut to the chase?" He sighed impatiently.

Tony knew his behavior was freaking her out; they functioned on the principle that he did grounded to her flaky. She did grave to his fun. And each curbed and absorbed the excesses of the other's idiosyncrasies, creating balance. Truth be told, his behavior was freaking him out. Whilst Tony knew it was a stretch to categorize the mute, over-strung Ziva, in front of him, as stable, the set-up was peculiar. Currently, he was doing unbalanced to her, albeit temporarily frozen, unbalanced-er. If they kept going down this road, blood would be drawn - in all likelihood literally, if re-animation of Ziva's temper had anything to do with it.

"I wanted to see you….I was worried about you." Both precise statements were honest.

She _was_ concerned about him; he had been so irascible, miserable really, of late. And he looked exhausted. McGee, at one point, had jokingly suggested the consequence of too many late nights with a new woman. Ziva identified it as a different, more psychological, tiredness. Although the codicil of concern was added lest her voice betrayed how much she wanted to see him; how much she wanted to be with him.

"And you just had to wait until nearly midnight because why?" He ignored her expression of care, as though he was resentful of the intrusion.

Inexplicably, for the past couple of weeks, job-related frustrations and individual demons had combined to disrupt his self-view. He wondered if he were having a mid-life crisis. And, if he was, why couldn't it be of the taking up BASE jumping or buying a Ferrari variety. Not this nebulous insurgency within himself. A powder-keg of uncertainty and dissatisfaction and confused feelings; which he struggled to keep a lid on.

"I did not know if your girlfriend, if Alice….?" Ziva completely disguised her awkwardness at mentioning the name, at trying to ask the question.

"_EX_-girlfriend." The snapped interruption was self-explanatory.

Lunch with Alice was one reason for his present touchiness. Tony had learnt how to treat women from his father – both the good and the bad. Though certainly not always a perfect gentleman, he was enough of one to know stringing Alice along was unkind and wrong. Rather than let her think they would carry on when he returned, Tony had finished it. Without acrimony; she had, of course, been equable. The usual excuses of 'it was him, not her; his failing, not hers' - a gallant, though misleading, simplification.

"Oh." Here deception failed her; hesitating a fraction too long, fiddling with an earring. "I am sorry." Tony shot her a quizzical look.

There was a schizophrenic aspect to hearing the news. Ziva was sorry for what she presumed was his sadness over the split. Even a little sorry for Alice since pity is always easier to muster if there is no threat. She squashed the irrational glimmer of her own emotions.

"Well that makes at least three of us then, doesn't it?" Anger crept into his voice because her tiny delay fuelled a faint shift in the atmosphere.

He wasn't angry about the end of his relationship. His overriding reaction was one of relief. He was angry over the symbolic loss of a girlfriend. He was angry because the end of the relationship brought into sharp relief a disturbing possibility. One he steadfastly refused to acknowledge, or analyze. Sometimes, a mid-life crisis can be a euphemism for falling in love with a much younger woman. And angry because there she was; nervously standing in his apartment, poised for flight - fidgety and irresolute.

"You are troubled by the Director's decision?" Ziva shied away from the risky territory surrounding matters of the heart.

She tried for steadiness in the prima facie source of Tony's unhappiness, treading lightly on the topic. Aware he was suspicious, with good reason, of the agency administration. Aware Tony suffered from professional doubts and personal insecurities – which didn't need aggravating.

"Yes." Aggression and tension were still evident.

The assignment appeared straightforward enough. But then, it always had. Tony had been burned twice by directors and their plots; Shepard and The Frog, Vance and Agent Lee. Not to mention Vance had, essentially, thrown him to the wolves over Rivkin. Although Tony admitted, maybe, he deserved that one a little. Protecting Ziva and wrestling jealousy hidden behind doing his job was never going to be the smartest career move. And Vance had seemed disinterested in the idea of avenging Ziva; obstructive even. Finally, there was the most recent episode involving shady plans, hidden motives and Eli. Vance was Eli's friend; a less than glowing recommendation in Tony's book. He viewed it as more akin to a Mephistophelean pact; with top billing for the part of Devil up for grabs.

"Because he chose you?" She attempted to introduce the raw nerve, without pricking it.

Ziva's aim was sympathy; to reach him in the neutral zone of work. She would remind Tony he had already proven himself an excellent, talented leader when Gibbs 'retired'. Her intention was to let him know she was proud of him. That Vance's faith in him was totally justified. She wanted to find some way of relaxing the uptight, harried man pacing the floor. She wanted - but wouldn't - to tell Tony she would miss him terribly. That she wished he didn't have to go.

"Is that _so_ fucking hard to believe?" He furiously faced her.

She opened her mouth as if to say something, changed her mind and left. Tony realized his error; he was bothered by Vance yet he hadn't had to explain. Ziva knew instinctively. She had come to offer comfort, to commiserate. On an inner level, he had responded - because she understood him. He went after her. Ziva had just opened his front door when Tony caught up; standing behind her, pushing the door closed as she tried to pull it open. She twisted round, striving for anger to hide hurt, trapped between him and the door.

"Zee-vah, I'm sorry." He gave her a rueful smile. "I am…._really_ sorry." Cupping her face and gently running his thumb over the bruise on her cheekbone. "It's lousy timing, I guess. I'm tired….pissed off."

Wedged into a corner was always going to be a hazardous situation in which to find themselves. Pent-up emotions and proximity collided; the impact instantly electrified the mood. Tony's customary failsafe bypassed by the look in her eyes - he kissed her. It was a long, hard, very thorough kiss – the strength of desire behind it unmistakable. And Ziva kissed back, demanding, her hands grasping at his shirt. Breaking apart when oxygen became an essential rather than a luxury, they stared at one another in a nanosecond of charged, stunned silence. Before cooler judgment could prevail, his lips were on hers again. Holding her head and moving to her face, her throat, and back to her lips. His heart was thumping; though he was sure kissing didn't cause deafness, it felt like it from the blood pounding in his ears. 'Next year in Jerusalem' Malachi had quipped on the ancient hope of the Diaspora; Tony settled for right here in D.C., right now.

Her mind was in free fall. She wanted this so badly - needed him so badly - any chance of rationalizing against the barrage of chaotic feelings evaporated. Ziva's hands wound around his neck as she explored his mouth, nipping his lower lip. Slowly, he walked backwards, leading her down the hall. They tracked toward his bed like a weird version of pinball; resting against walls or furniture. Frantically reacting to the compelling craving to be closer, kiss deeper, assuage arousal and take it further. They peeled layers of clothing off each other, strewing the hallway and bedroom floor.

Ziva lay back on the bed and Tony dropped to his knees. Her breath caught as she felt his tongue make contact. He was an unselfish lover who had considerably more than passing familiarity with a woman's body. He truly wanted to discover what she liked, what she didn't - what drove her crazy. He was kissing her, licking and sucking her; blowing on her. Tony took Ziva to the brink and then paused. She gave a little disappointed sigh then sucked in a breath. The sensual, provoking pleasure restarted. He could have got off on just doing this to her; she was so responsive. And Tony was overdosing on the experience of the warm, wet softness. Caressing and tasting her; holding her hips as she squirmed. Winding Ziva tantalizingly closer each time and then waiting. He received a crash course in Hebrew. Puzzled by it at first until he understood; the mini-Babelfish in her brain was offline- she had reverted to her native language.

When he slipped fingers in, she twitched with a low moan. nails scrabbling at the sheet. Sitting up slightly, Ziva combed a hand through his hair to move his head away. Tony shook free and continued with his maddeningly blissful attention. She slithered up the bed. He followed; slowly kissing a random pattern all the way up along her, working on nipples. She tugged at the hair on the back of his head, murmuring a phrase. Dimly Tony recognized a couple of words - 'please…please….now' - and translated the blanks of the acute appeal. He knelt between her legs and she reached down to stroke his erection. Tony intercepted her hand.

"Nuh-uh; 'cause that'll end this real quick." He grinned elatedly. "And I'm not done with you yet."

Ziva's laugh was husky and indulgent – sharing that giddy high unique to two people having great sex. He slid Ziva toward him, angling her pelvis and leaning over. As Tony entered her, she wrapped her legs around him, pushing up with a slight rocking motion. Controlled, focused rhythm; pressure and counter-pressure gradually building the intensity – their eyes fixed on each other. Ziva was breathing in short, rapid gasps and making soft noises in the back of her throat. The dual sensations of his cock rubbing her clit, as he fucked her, sent an intoxicating rush of endorphins coursing through her system. He had pinned her hands either side of Ziva. Her fingers clenched down, entwined in his; lost within the delicious dichotomy of reaching for the peak, yet wanting to extend the anticipation for just a moment longer.

Her whole body was tensing and shuddering. Tony toppled forward onto her, shifting his position. The effects of her orgasm undermined command. His movement became harder, faster; more insistent. Restraint spiraling away from him; he couldn't get enough of being inside her; possessing her. The fevered, fragmented dreams dispelled – this was real. Tony snarled fingers through her hair bunching and almost pulling it, as he came.

"Oh Christ, Zee-vah"

* * *

Tony was kissing her again; sweet, tender kisses – breaths panting into to each other's mouths, skin sweaty and sticky. He rolled off her and Ziva curled into him – unconsciously seeking to preserve the intimacy. He found it surprising, endearing. Shit-hot sex goddess, absolutely; cuddly, maybe; Tony would never have placed a bet on Ziva being the cuddly type. She was tingly, trembling and Tony held her more tightly, playing with strands of hair where they tumbled down her back. The implications of their actions had yet to sink in; dizzying delight still echoed through nerve-endings. She fell asleep. Tony wished he could too. It was the first night - in what he would swear was forever – the battle was to stay awake. He had sufficient time to get cleaned up. Whilst showering, Tony did reflect. It had been different this time; all-consuming, definitely way more fun. And they were sober. Which meant not guilty by reason of diminished responsibility wouldn't fly as his internal escape clause.

The first thing he noticed was her clothes missing from the hallway. And he didn't really need to look in the bedroom to know she was gone. Tony leaned his head against the door – payback for nearly three years ago. Ziva liked to even the score.

* * *

Gibbs' preference for words spoken if strictly necessary - and then only the bare minimum essential for productive discourse - was a welcome break for Tony. He stretched out in the passenger seat, weariness enveloping him like a heavy blanket. Not just weariness from not having slept; weariness from the nonsensical sequence he and Ziva seemed fated to repeat. Something had happened – again. They hadn't talked about it – again. And one of them had bolted before they could address it – again.

Gibbs was irritated at the prospect of losing one of his agents – even temporarily. The reason made sense; better to be short-staffed in D.C. where there were others to fill the gap. He had no doubt Tony could and would handle the task at Pearl. Still it was an inconvenience and Tony chose that moment to remind his boss of why he was the senior field agent.

"Faulkner spent a few months at Barking Sands last year. Want me to do a little digging?"

"If you getta chance." Gibbs growled assent. "Straighten things out with Ziva?"

It wasn't such an unusual inquiry. Gibbs maintained vigilance where his people were concerned; ensuring the finely constructed engine was kept running smoothly. Intervening if minor problems looked like becoming major issues. There was also the fact Gibbs viewed the team as his surrogate family.

"Yeah, Boss, we're good"- a careful mix of true and false - "same as ever."

He noticed the deflated, uncharacteristic acidity in Tony's reply. Cupid he was not. Gibbs was a son of Athena; warfare, heroism and what was called for here - wisdom. Obviously they were still quarreling. The vision of Shannon floated through his memory; standing at the back door, hands on hips, yelling at him. She was a redhead and lived up to the reputation. No longer able to remember what she had called him, what he had done. None of that mattered. Gibbs smiled. He could remember making up.

"She'll cool down. They always do."

If Tony were more wide-awake, he might have picked up on the ambiguous remark. It could have been a generic reference to temperamental personalities. Or it could have been a reassuring expression of male solidarity. The 'Women: Can't live with 'em, Can't live without 'em' approach.

Tony collected his bags from the rear seat. Gibbs shook his hand.

"Jackson's reliable. Abbott'll resent you bein' parachuted in. Stay frosty."

The Gibbs Pep Talk; terse and practical. Yet Tony was touched by his boss' offer of a ride to Andrews; grateful for the unfussy support and insightful advice on 'his' team.


	9. Someone

_**I hope that he turns out to be**_

_**Someone who'll watch over me**_

_**George & Ira Gershwin [Someone To Watch Over Me] **_

* * *

The dark SUV had driven past three times. Once was enough to raise Ziva's alert level to high; she methodically began preparations for defense.

"Call Fornell; tell him we will have company."

An unflustered instruction to Martinez, as she moved around securing windows, doors and drew curtains. It was getting dark.

"How do you know?"

The FBI agent was a little unnerved by the cool way she had taken charge and by the odd, anticipatory, look as she smiled at him.

"A vehicle. One at present." Ziva was checking her guns; assessing her ammo. "There will be more. You and Agent Beck set up here." On arrival at the safe-house Ziva had familiarized herself with the layout. "I will keep Lance Corporal Neely with me." She had already identified the room most advantageous should a stand become necessary.

The two FBI agents exchanged glances. Ziva was so completely composed – apparently unworried about the impending assault despite the attendant dangers involved. Neither of them commented but privately both were convinced she definitely wasn't alarmed. In fact, she seemed perversely excited; which was a disconcerting realization.

"They will hit hard and fast. We are only required to hold until back-up arrives." She looked at Martinez, "which will not occur if you do not call Fornell – now."

She had been thinking about Tony; gone four weeks. He hadn't called and neither had she. He was due back in the next couple of days; his imminent return triggering a blend of reactions. There was the simple reunification of the team; easing the increased workload of being without one member. Additionally, each individual supplied different abilities and the synthesis resulted in a highly effective unit. The MCRT was off-kilter without Tony. That was the practical, sensible reason. Then there was the impulsive thrill. And, hard as she tried, Ziva was unable to convince herself it was only because the team would be back together. She knew the foolish excitement was a foray into more dangerous territory than Gibbs' outfit returning to normal.

And finally there was the turbulent confusion. In her spare moments, Ziva had contemplated, relived and fretted about sleeping with Tony. If she could have managed it, she would have avoided the replay; it had been so vividly erotic. Turned on and depressed, simultaneously, was a truly bizarre state. They had redressed the deficiencies of last time; an undoubted mistake. It was inverse logic; usually drunk people assign greater meaning to these events, experience emotions which might vanish in the cold hard light of day. Nothing had been said, really, yet the missing connection had been established. The prospect of losing that feeling made her heart ache -Tony had succeeded in shattering her shields.

Ziva assessed her conduct as irresponsible, ill-conceived. As the saying goes, succumbing to the attraction once was unfortunate; twice looked like carelessness. The encounter encompassed many ramifications. Not just because of the satisfying sex; two adults who knew their way around a bedroom should be capable of that much. The neutrality and detachment, of the night before he was re-assigned as Agent Afloat, banished. They would have to talk about it. And communication always meant confrontation - or worse, deliberate deflection leading to disappointment and regret.

* * *

Tony was pissed by the military's insistence on transporting him at ungodly hours. And his internal clock was five hours behind local time. He could have skipped the trip into the Navy Yard. There was no urgent need to brief Vance. His report could wait until the next day. He went in, after lunch, simply to see Ziva; he had missed her. Tony had been calling her since arriving back in D.C. - without success. Maybe, because of the situation, she wasn't taking his calls.

"Where's Zee-vah?" He finally asked when she hadn't made an appearance in the bull-pen. Trying to appear casually interested and not like he'd been 'phoning her all day.

"Safe-house; we got a lead in that arms dealing case – a beans and bullets guy willing to testify." McGee was puzzled by Tony's ignorance.

Ziva had been somewhat withdrawn during Tony's trip. The mysterious force which permanently surrounded their interactions was noticeably absent. However, she hadn't seemed excessively out of sorts. His presumption was they must have fixed the rift. And, for the simple reason they were incapable ever of leaving each other alone for any length of time - whether to fight or not – McGee assumed Tony and Ziva would have been in frequent contact. That conclusion supported by the fact Ziva was traced to Somalia, only because Tony was bugged no-one had heard from her. Secretly McGee had viewed the prospect of having to deal with Ziva, on his own, with trepidation. He was relieved at her reserve; they were friends but she did scare him. He wasn't keen on the idea of Ziva being upset about something, if Tony wasn't around to weather and calm the squalls; especially if what she was upset about was Tony.

"So she's at some place Fornell set up." McGee explained. "It's only temporary 'til they sort out jurisdiction, probably hand over tomorrow." Seeing Tony was about to ask more, he carried on. "They only got on site an hour or so ago. The Lance Corporal's still active."

"Alone?" Professional expertise recognizing there should be more than one – even one Ninja – on duty.

"There are a couple of Fornell's guys with them." McGee shook his head.

"Whose brilliant idea was that?" Inter-agency rivalry dictating the FBI support should automatically be regarded as of dubious worth.

"Mine, DiNozzo." Gibbs was right behind him.

"And that's why it's a brilliant idea, Boss." Tony didn't miss a beat.

Gibbs smiled at the typical save, genuinely pleased to see him back.

"Grab your gear. We gotta dead Petty Officer's wife." Not one to waste time or words on effusive welcomes, he merely clapped Tony on the shoulder with a minimalist accolade. "Good work."

They were halfway to the crime scene when Fornell's call came in. Gibbs hailed from the same school of driving as Ziva - without the near suicidal recklessness. For this journey it was a definite plus; the tension in the vehicle was suffocating.

"How many?" Tony succeeded in keeping undue anxiety out of his voice.

"Dozen, heavily armed. Maybe more." Gibbs might have been giving a baseball score.

"Against three? Shit." Tony muttered.

"Well, Ziva's got to be worth at least two extra." McGee, as ever, was trying to be hopeful.

Unfortunately, he concisely expressed Tony's exact fear. Concern boiled over – he even forgot a McNickname.

"Yeah, Tim, and she'll fucking behave like she is, too."

"Tony." Gibbs reprimanded calmly. He wasn't surprised or annoyed by the strength of Tony's reaction. However, Gibbs did want him to focus; hence the rare use of his Christian name. "McGee, can you getta plan of the safe-house on your gizmo?"

McGee was pleased to have something to do. Within seconds, the layout of the small, ranch-style house was on the display.

"She'll be in back." Gibbs knew his team; what made them tick, how they responded to situations. He knew Ziva would do what he would do under those circumstances, and where she would be.

They screeched to a halt, at a crazy angle. The scene was already chaotic. Lights and sirens blazing and blaring against the background noise of gunfire. The attackers were heavily armed and had thrown smoke grenades and flash-bangs into the house. The FBI and others were already there in force. Tony didn't even wait for the car to stop moving fully before he was sprinting across the lawn, gun drawn.

* * *

Ziva could tell from the sounds that reinforcements were indeed outside. And not a moment too soon; she was, as Gibbs had predicted, holed up in a small back room with their witness. She was out of ammunition – the next wave would have to be repelled physically. She had considered exiting through the one window to the room, before discounting it as too risky without knowing who was where.

Neely was a small, weaselly man; who had spent most of the time whining and justifying his activities. Earlier, Ziva wondered if she could get away with knocking him unconscious – certainly against protocols and he was the type likely to lodge a formal complaint. Still, in her current frame of mind, the idea became more appealing as the hours crawled past.

The first two through the door carelessly underestimated the slight woman they encountered. Grabbing one guy's outstretched weapon, a strike at the other's face before crashing him into his comrade against the corner of the wall. A swift, efficient blow to their heads with the gun – now in her possession – effectively disabled both of them. At that moment, Neely chose to emerge from his hiding place; momentarily distracting her.

"No…."

Ziva's instruction was cut off as the firearm was knocked from her hand. She was able to recover sufficiently to launch one vicious kick, knocking her assailant off- balance before another man entered the room, aiming a gun. For the second time, Pierce and O'Brien came face-to-face with Ziva – and this time, there was no element of surprise. Unknown to anyone, Neely's pursuers needed to take him alive. He had been smart enough to siphon off funds and incriminating paperwork as an insurance policy. Unfortunately, also stupid enough to believe his former accomplices wouldn't kill him once in possession of the missing money and documents. Neely held his hands up, smiling obsequiously and obeyed Pierce's gesture to approach. Holding his ribcage where Ziva's kick had connected, O'Brien stared at her and pulled out a knife. He was going to enjoy this.

Tony and Agent Sacks eased through the door and Pierce felt the barrel of Tony's Sig. press into the back of his head. With an outrageous grin, he glanced across at O'Brien.

"Looks like you brought a knife to a gunfight." In his best Sean Connery voice; three out of the five people in the room looked at Tony in utter disbelief. Including O'Brien – the only reason Pierce didn't was because he daren't risk turning his head.

"Oh come on; 'The Untouchables'?" Tony complained – as equally disbelieving as his audience.

Ziva was the only one unperturbed by his movie homage. She merely smiled at him – a spontaneous mix of surprise and genuinely delighted affection flickering across her face – and made the understatement of the night.

"You are here." Then she turned her attention back to O'Brien. "You touched me again." It was said with disturbing aplomb as she relieved him of the knife.

The big man visibly blanched and took a step back, as she moved toward him - before changing direction at the last minute. She pushed past him with a contemptuous toss of her head. As Sacks cuffed O'Brien, he formed two conclusions. First, the rumors concerning Tony and Ziva may well be true – based on the buzz when they saw each other. Second, he was glad Ziva wasn't his type – based on the instantaneous switch from pleasure at seeing Tony, to ruthless menace when she looked at O'Brien.


	10. Accidents Will Happen

_**The likes of you may never be **_

_**Attracted to the likes of me**_

_**But accidents will happen and I'll be around**_

_**Burke & Van Heusen**_

* * *

"Jeeeesus, Zee-vah."

During Tony's assignment in Hawaii, he regained most of his equilibrium; certainly with regard to his professional irritations. Not regained completely because he also identified the other source of his trouble. Finally accepting the situation; the realization had allayed some of his restlessness. However, it also provided a whole new set of problems - Tony hadn't figured out a solution to any of them. The other source of his trouble was currently in his kitchen. Tony had walked in, still getting dressed after a shower. Momentarily, he paused in the doorway - after the initial shock - amused by the mental juxtaposition of the two women who had been, most recently, in his kitchen. Alice standing by the table: all calm chic and elegant equanimity. And Ziva: sat cross-legged atop one of the counters playing catch with a knife. The beautiful, bewitching woman he could never entirely exorcise from his thoughts.

Tony studied her. She was radiating that weird, watchful vitality of hers. A mood indicator ranging from Ninja senses alerted to an imminent strike warning. Or simply she was mad because someone had cut in line. And sometimes it signaled disquiet. Despite its inscrutable, multi-faceted identity, Tony was an expert at reading the vibe; tonight she was disturbed.

"What did you do; teleport?" Buttoning his jeans and starting on his shirt.

"I picked the lock." As if it was a perfectly normal method of gaining entry to someone's home.

"Thought Miss Constitutional Rights 2009 had renounced that kinda unlawful behavior?"

He teased. Waiting for Ziva to settle; Tony was certain he knew why she was there. Ziva would get around to it – eventually. Unusually, she had made the first move; he was curious to discover how close she would permit him. And to gauge how touchy she was.

"The practice is of benefit." Her smile was uncertain.

"You could've called." The echo of a prior conversation, under nearly identical circumstances hung between them. Landmine #1

"So could you." Temper flashing instantly.

"Zee-vah, I meant tonight, you could've called tonight." He was exasperated, caught off-guard by her misunderstanding. "Instead of trying to give me cardiac arrest, we could've had a drink or dinner or….something."

Stopping, because those options suddenly all sounded suspiciously like dates. What Tony meant was not here, not in his apartment. With the memory of the last time she had arrived unexpectedly, rebelliously laying siege to his thoughts.

"Oh." Ziva was embarrassed by her overreaction and redirected. "Director Vance is pleased with you?"

Tony hadn't called – using the head space afforded by time away to figure out what he wanted to say to her. It wasn't the sort of conversation to be conducted from a distance of four thousand miles. And calling her and ignoring the fact they'd slept together would be just peculiar. He was glad he resisted the urge to talk to her; judging by Ziva's sensitivity to the subject, it was going to be a long night. It would have been impossible over the 'phone.

"Yeah." Tony gave a wry grin. "'Til he's not."

Vance was very satisfied with Tony's handling of the task. Although Gibbs' gruff praise had meant far more to him than all the Director's plaudits. Tony had acquitted himself admirably; breezing in, swilling coffee, and only marginally more talkative than his own boss. Leading from the front and laying down rules. Fielding the surly Abbott; waiting until he made a rookie mistake and then ripping the guy a new one, effectively ending any revolt. The two minor and one, relatively, major investigations were carried out to Gibbs' exacting standards. He handed Craig a markedly different team to the one over which he had assumed charge a month earlier.

"How was Hawaii?" She was circling the topic of the night before he left.

"Green and humid." He pushed himself off the door-frame and walked over to the refrigerator. "Wanna beer?"

"Yes, thank you." She hesitated. "It was not an early Spring Break?"

She teased on his frat boy persona – although the tone of her voice implied they were inching nearing to the reason for Ziva's presence.

"Nah." He shook his head, handing her a bottle. "Besides, I'm old enough to know better."

Tony clinked his bottle against hers, offering an unspoken toast, and sat on the table opposite Ziva.

"But young enough to do it anyway…if you wanted to." She cryptically widened the discussion – with the same motif she always followed; what did he want.

"It doesn't work like that." Tony took a drink, watching her speculatively. By not responding directly to the underlying meaning, he was hoping to force Ziva to lower her guard.

"Sometimes it does." Ziva was picking at the label on the bottle, not looking at him. "It could." - A quiet, cautious advance.

'It' had become a charged word. An oblique reference to their relationship which needed no explanation; 'it' represented all the missed opportunities, all the mistakes. 'It' was the personification of their difficulty; encapsulating the emotions, doubts and hopes spanning five years. 'It' represented the Gordian knot entangling them. The tension surrounding those two letters was palpable.

"I don't want a female fuck buddy, Zee-vah, if that's what you're offering." A faint grin crossed Tony's face, as he attempted to ease the pressure a little. "Once every three years means I'd have to rate you a definite fail."- Landmine #2

"That is not what I meant." Ziva's head snapped up, insulted. "Why must everything be a joke to you?"

Anger sparked into life. The critical accusation used for defense as Ziva perceived disinterest. She glared at him, eyes brewing a fight.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Sarcasm tinged his apology. "You want me to take this seriously?" Her reaction had provoked mocking skepticism. "OK, _seriously then_, why'd you leave, Zee-vah?" Coolly deliberate as he posed the question.

Tony recognized the irony. He, of all people, was protesting the outcome of a one-night-stand. And, in reality, he was reluctant to ask her why – in the event the answer was not one he wanted to hear. However, in grappling with the dilemma, he had made one determination; perpetual evasion served no purpose. They either had to leave each other alone, or find some way to move forward. His unflinching, candid challenge was designed to confront Ziva; gambling with a head-on approach instead of their usual avoidance. Tony steeled himself for the inevitable explosion.

"Because I did not know what to say."

There was a complete lack of aggression in the simple admission. Meeting his gaze with an unsure apology in her eyes as she awkwardly confessed her confusion.

"And you're here now 'cause you do?" Tony quizzically raised an eyebrow; surprised at her calm.

"No, Tony." Ziva shook her head with a sigh. "But it should be said."

He took another drink, rolling his eyes at her reticence. A statement of the blindingly obvious would not aid progress. The specters of an endless cycle of chances not taken and incomplete declarations oppressively stalked the room – filling the atmosphere with vague pessimism. Frustration erupted.

"Then say it, Zee-vah." Tony held out his hands – irritation made his comment seem like an abrasive ultimatum. "Who am I? Professional partner? Friend with occasional benefits?" He swallowed. "Older, _much older_, brother? And if that's the case you really are gonna have to stop sleeping with me." The last remark infused with a measure of cynicism beneath the levity. She had said that to him once. 'Stop being such a big brother' - it had stung.

Ziva uncrossed her legs, stretching and flexing her back.

"Why does your age bother you, Tony?" Her direct query was an unexpected digression.

"It doesn't." The denial was without conviction.

Ziva held his gaze unwaveringly – disbelief etched in her expression. She knew Tony just as thoroughly as he knew her.

"'Cause it's true." He shrugged in resignation. "I'm nearly forty, Zee-vah. You're not even thirty."

Involuntarily tensing as he spoke the words. There was little point in denying it. The thought constantly nagged at him once he had accepted he was in love with her. Four weeks in Hawaii spent worrying over the age difference. The other problems which arose; working together in a high stress, hazardous environment, Gibbs' Rule, that Tony didn't do commitment – incredibly willing to make an exception now. That he sometimes questioned whether she was entirely sane – in an completely enchanting kind of way. All of these were trivial in comparison.

"That does not matter." Still with her eyes locked on his. "The number of birthdays does not matter, Tony." Her answer was typically Ziva; forthright and without sentiment.

She was surprised by Tony's self-doubt. Noting his frequent references to age of late, she linked it to his earlier moodiness. She had failed to comprehend its specific significance as an obstacle. On one occasion, Ziva even told him she found 'certain older men attractive' and assumed Tony had understood. Until he mentioned it tonight, the difference in their ages hadn't made an appearance on her personal radar.

"There's plenty of people who'd tell you it does, Zee-vah." Tony was realistic – even as he was suddenly a little more hopeful – in countering her easy dismissal.

Most of his friends were involved with or married to – and a number divorced from – women nearer their own ages. In between enviously congratulating him on Ziva, he knew they'd be issuing cautionary recommendations. And her friends would do the same – maybe without the congratulations.

"I am different." A pensive note seeped into her voice.

"Well, yeah, I'll give you that. You snore, you drool." Feeling the healed inside of his lip with his tongue; remembering the kisses. "You bite." He grinned affectionately. "And no man's ever gonna complain about any of it, Zee-vah, 'cause you sleep with a loaded gun and you're an assassin." - Landmine #3 delay switch

Ziva stiffened and her eyes dropped. Focused on the topic which had been causing him so much grief, Tony didn't notice.

"There are other factors which are of greater relevance to it….to making a relationship work."

Tony exhaled the breath he didn't know he'd been holding. For now, at least, she seemed to be saying the age gap didn't bother her. And 'it' had transformed into the 'r' word.

"But, you have to admit," he gave her a philosophical smile, "it'd be fucking stupid not to even consider the difference." It was an opportunity to amend her position if she wanted.

"I am different and…." She repeated the phrase, uneasily, as though it were some kind of charm warding off demons.

"OK. And I'm still a lot older than you." He was puzzled, sensing she was spooked over an unknown entity. "So if none of that matters, what does?" Another echo conjuring the past.

"Age is not always about years. Experiences or actions can be….corrosive. They can age a person….it can be wearing..." She sounded wistful, with a lost, haunted look in her eyes. "Sometimes anyone can feel as if they are a thousand years old…."

Tony was alarmed. Despite speaking in careful, general terms, Ziva was clearly referring to herself – which was downright weird. She was endeavoring to articulate her own worries. Only Ziva's disjointed monologue meant the point was obscured and telling her that wasn't a good idea. Over-wrought was bad; angry and over-wrought was a near disastrous combination for Ziva. Somehow the conversation about his age had skewed in a direction Tony didn't completely comprehend.

"Hey Ninja, why is this important?" He asked again, trying to bring her back.

"Because if you….some knowledge is destructive." She looked at him warily. "There are things I have done…" Ziva's faltering statement stalled again.

"Zee-vah, I'm not stupid. You were Mossad. I know what that means and, yeah, you've probably done some real scary shit. Christ, I've _seen_ you do some real scary shit." He struck a light, neutral attitude; hoping the calm would have an effect. "Without it you wouldn't be you, Zee-vah." Tony cocked his head with a cautious, concerned smile. "You do bring a whole new meaning to the phrase 'Bond Girl'."

"Tony it is not that simple. I…." Ziva shook her head, nervously avoiding his gaze.

"Yes, it is that fucking simple." He interrupted firmly. "And one day you'll tell me. Or maybe you won't. Or maybe I'll ask. That doesn't matter." Tony edged nearer to tackling what seemed to be her apprehension. "What does matter is I'm not gonna let you use it as an excuse 'cause you think it'll drive me away or so you can run."

They were about to cross the Rubicon and the concept was frightening her. The five year possibility was almost a real-time actuality. In all honesty, Tony was more than slightly disconcerted by the notion. In seeking protection, a reason to retreat, she had inadvertently released the seal on deeper fears and hurts. Ziva appeared to be waging an internal war; as if she believed herself to be irreparably damaged in some way. That he wouldn't want her.

Ziva remained silent for a few minutes; leaning forward, rigid, with her head down. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the edge of the counter. She was slipping away from him, trapped in a dark, distant place. Uncertain as to exactly what had tripped the wire, he knew Ziva's distress level was rising; rapidly. Her extraordinary fortitude, the sheer guts which meant she survived the ordeal, was the flip side of a poignant fragility and the two were interconnected. Tony wondered, sometimes, if he were the only one able to see both elements of her personality.

"When I was held….they….what happened to me…." Ziva was struggling to verbalize her anxieties – almost panicked. "It….You should know…."

Tony didn't wait for her to finish, walking over; Ziva tensed further. He put his fingers on her lips and stopped the agitated flow of words. The episodes were sometimes like a waking nightmare; amazingly rare given the hell she had endured. Maybe three he was aware of in nearly eighteen months. Never prolonged and Tony didn't know if, or how often she fought alone.

"Listen to me; you _can_ tell me anything." He reassured softly. "There's nothing I _should_ know, OK? Let's get that straight, right now."

"OK?" - Gently encouraging her when he didn't get response.

"You do not understand….." This wasn't one of the transfixed variety; just a shock wave of memory.

"No, I don't. It didn't happen to me." Tony was honest. Even rattled, bullshit wouldn't work on Ziva. "You never talk about it. And that's OK too." The comment wasn't a reproach; it was a soothing acknowledgment of autonomy. Her right to deal with her trauma the way she chose. He wouldn't impose rules as to how she should react. "Whatever the bastards did; it doesn't change anything."

Tony placed his hands on top of hers. Waiting for her to relax and quell the turmoil. Eventually, Ziva released her desperate grasp on the counter. Resting her forehead against his and clasping her hands around his neck.

"You didn't answer my question." Tony might have battled Ziva's gremlins, he still had one of his own to vanquish.

Ziva sat back, opening her eyes with a perplexed frown.

"Who am I?"

She didn't answer immediately. Fiddling with the bottom of his shirt where it was un-tucked.

"You are Tony DiNozzo…" She took an unsteady breath. "….and that is why we love you."

Tony was amused by her choice of pronoun. Ziva's declaration was the archetype for their relationship; the meaning explicit yet sufficiently disguised to be non-threatening. She would, eventually, manage the 'I' word – Tony figured she would probably work her way through all eight other languages before he heard it in English.

"That doesn't mean I have to sleep with Gibbs and McGee does it?" - Unable to resist teasing her over the dodge. "Ow." Ziva retaliated by pulling the short hair above his ear.

"What do you want to do?"

Ziva's inquiry was exceedingly pertinent. They hadn't, actually, resolved anything. He had an inability to commit; if there is no commitment, the promise cannot be broken. A legacy of his disrupted disconnected childhood. She was fighting the ghosts of abandonment; the result of horrific events. He had a fear of rejection and she was a latter-day Lady Macbeth; scrubbing at bloodstained hands. Against all odds, their mismatched pieces fit. They had reached a point of understanding – it was a beginning. Tony leaned forward, whispering in her ear.

"Pizza. I'm hungry."


	11. That Old Black Magic

_**That old black magic has me in its spell**_

_**That old black magic that you weave so well**_

_**Icy fingers up and down my spine**_

_**The same old witchcraft when your eyes meet mine**_

_**Arlen & Mercer**_

* * *

"I was not over-confident…." Ziva's indignant voice floated from the direction of the elevator.

Oh. My. God. McGee groaned into his computer. _Four weeks;_ Tony was away for four weeks, almost another had passed since his return. And they were still arguing that issue. He knew of radioactive isotopes with a shorter half-life than a Tony and Ziva conflict.

"Oh yeah, you were." Tony was unyielding.

"The fight was not over." The stubborn note indicated Ziva was equally firm.

"Oh yeah, it was." He was baiting her. "Face it, you lost." They arrived at their respective desks.

"Tony, I did not lose." Her voice registered her disagreement.

"Oh yeah, you did." Attempting, and failing, to keep the smug amusement out of his voice. "Five seconds, Zee-vah, the bet was five seconds."

Ziva had been giving new recruits a demonstration of her alternative methods of hand-to-hand combat. She had enlisted Tony to be her 'assailant' and he challenged he could take her down. The loser would buy dinner. He had cheated slightly. Since it was a demonstration he was privileged to a little advanced notice on the choreography of her moves. However, Tony wasn't about to let such a minor detail detract from his gloating. And once Ziva realized he wasn't playing fair, she had upped her game.

"Yes, Tony, and in the sixth, I could have broken your neck." Ziva's sense of justice was offended – and her pride.

"Doesn't count." He triumphantly held up his hand with the fingers splayed. "Five not six."

McGee was grateful his first worry was incorrect. This was not a continuation of the fight before Tony left. And he was even more grateful it was their playful sparring mode. The current had returned to normal operating levels. Moreover, Tony's mood had improved immeasurably and even Ziva seemed more settled. It was true; they had spent yesterday disputing who should get the credit for breaking the Faulkner case. It turned out to be nothing more sinister than a mid-life crazy. The Captain had abandoned his post, and his family, after becoming involved with a woman more than twenty five years his junior. Ziva claimed first prize for correctly proclaiming the Captain was having an affair. Tony refused to concede on the grounds he discovered the twenty five year old graduate student in Hawaii - whose existence prompted the melt-down. McGee was strangely comforted by the nature of the quarrel. It had been of the type fuelled by ego and competing wills - with neither admitting defeat. Light-hearted, though that by no means lessening the intensity of their participation. Tony and Ziva traded one-upmanship insults and were in each other's personal space. Standing so close together it seemed their bodies had to make contact but didn't. McGee's protestations that his fiendishly clever tracking and triangulation had, in fact, uncovered the most vital information – the whereabouts of the errant Captain – were totally ignored. McGee felt life had returned to usual and was content – until the next time.

"Observe the Neutralized Ninja, the Defeated David, the Z….can't think of one for 'Z'" Tony paused. "Give me a minute and I'll try."

"If you value your fingers, do not succeed." Ziva threatened as she gathered her belongings for the evening.

"We're all going to check out that new bar, the one Palmer's girlfriend recommended." McGee decided to change the subject, just in case Tony pushed it too far. "Are you guys coming?"

McGee should have, but never did, think it odd he sometimes asked Tony and Ziva if they were attending after-work plans as if they were a couple – inviting them together.

"Not tonight, McCocktail." Tony leaned back in his chair, with a wickedly self-satisfied grin. "I'm going to be enjoying the spoils of victory." Briefly his eyes locked with Ziva's.

Ziva muttered something about him being insufferable, followed by an oath in Hebrew as she left. Calling over her shoulder; "Are you coming McGee?"

Gibbs was sat at his desk. He had astutely observed what McGee had not. Over the past week a subtle change in Tony and Ziva's interaction had become apparent. They were no less professional, no less competent. The magnetic charge in their atmosphere was no less fixed on each other; certainly no less potent. However, the searching insecurity and continual testing for confirmation was absent. And the final tell was this latest round of bickering. Dinner was obviously just a cover and the fleeting look they exchanged fairly screamed their relationship had advanced. Finally, Tony and Ziva had figured out how to progress the personal to a 'second' date. He hoped for everyone's sake, it didn't take them another five years to reach the third one.

Gibbs reflected it might mean eventual upheaval for his team. He was not concerned about their dedication to the job nor any problems associated with that aspect. The working relationship had already survived more drama than most marriages. The only trouble would be if one of them was in peril and that would be a problem whether they were sleeping together or not. He was powerless to prevent it, anyway. It had been obvious to Gibbs; from the day Tony and Ziva met this was inevitable. So obvious that Ducky now owed him a bottle of Bourbon.

Tony was conscientiously finishing up some of the paperwork which had accumulated whilst he was away; some of it courtesy of McGee and Ziva.

"Go on DiNozzo, go home." And just so they knew he knew, Gibbs added - with what would be considered an impish smile on anyone else - "Keep it out of the office."

A ridiculous statement, really, for the past five years Tony and Ziva had never, ever kept it out of the office. The whole courtship had played out in front of the entire agency. Gibbs' parting remark, as he headed for Autopsy, left Tony with the uncomfortable sense he'd just been caught doing something he shouldn't.


End file.
